


Of Gods and Men

by FictionCookie



Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2020-01-24 06:03:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 119,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18565417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionCookie/pseuds/FictionCookie
Summary: When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?





	1. Prologue

Our story begins with the Elder Gods, beings of immense power. For millennia, they formed worlds… and Gielinor was their perfect creation.  
It was also their last.  
For eons, Gielinor lay silent and concealed.  
But all treasures must be found.  
A young god named Guthix came upon the world, and he was overwhelmed by its beauty. So much so that he desired to share it with others. Gateways were opened, and he brought in peaceful beings. They tended the land, and lived in balance with the world, just as Guthix had intended.  
Gielinor was in the hands of mortals.  
Content with what he had created, Guthix knew it was time for him to leave.  
He journeyed under the earth... and slept.

But Guthix was not the only god.  
One by one, others found Gielinor, and instead of a world of balance, they saw a world of opportunity.  
New races swarmed through portals with no desire for peace or harmony.  
They were schemers.  
Warriors.  
Killers.  
Violence was swift to follow.  
God fought god, mortal fought mortal, and a powerful few dared to fight their masters.  
Out of chaos, the God Wars erupted, raging for centuries.

It was only after four thousand years of war that the destruction came to a sudden end.  
In the north, a god named Zamorak managed to reclaim one of the physical remnants of the Elder Gods, the Stone of Jas, that had been battled over throughout the wars.  
After being cornered by his opponents, in a desperate effort to save himself, Zamorak used its immense power to tear the continent asunder.  
Gielinor, once perfect, was forever scarred.  
The world cried out with pain.  
And Guthix woke.

Enraged by what had become of the once beautiful world, Guthix drove the Sword of Edicts into the heart of the northern continent, creating a barrier around Gielinor.  
With this power, he cast the gods out.  
No god could set foot on Gielinor again.  
It was a gift to mortals, freeing them from direct interference from the gods.  
Thus, the God Wars were brought to and end.  
With their masters banished, soldiers lay down their arms, and cities were built on battlefields.  
Before returning to sleep once more, Guthix looked upon the world, savaged and war-torn... and wept.  
Peace had returned to Gielinor.

The gods despised that peace.  
They clawed at the boundaries of the world, hunting for a weakness.  
Even in their absence, the gods’ presence was felt.  
They had left their mark, dividing the populace into factions, creating opposing ideologies and philosophies that contrasted and contended with each other.  
There was friction among the residents of Gielinor.  
Nevertheless, mortals went about their lives.  
But they could not have anticipated what would happen next; an upheaval that would change Gielinor forever...


	2. Troll Invasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 01: THE TEMPLE KNIGHTS  
> Chapter 1 - Troll Invasion
> 
> After a troll attack on Burthorpe, Jahaan's superiors take an interest in him and send him off to Sir Tiffy with the aim of making him a Temple Knight. However, it's not as easy as signing on the dotted line...

“INCOMING!”

The cry echoed through the town like a gunshot. Instantly, the dreary principality of Burthorpe was alive and kicking.

Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut was on his bed at the time, resting his feet over a book he’d borrowed from his bunkmate: ‘The Ghastly Grimoire’, a collection of short (supposedly true) ghost stories. Horror wasn’t too much his forte, but good literature was hard to come by at the military base.

However, as soon as as he heard the deafening bellow from the major, ‘By the Light of the Moon’, the collection’s fourth tale, became the furthest thing from his mind.

It was the second raid of the fortnight, the fifth of the month, and by now, Jahaan knew the drill like clockwork. He slipped into his iron plate armour and platelegs within half a minute, then adorning a half-helm to cover his head. From beside his bunk, he grabbed his steel shortsword and iron square shield.

The soldiers were trained with either a shortsword and claws, or a bow and arrow. Melee fighters had to be trained in very close-quarters combat, with an emphasis on accuracy, so claws were favoured. Jahaan got along with the claws just fine, but definitely felt more at home with a blade in his hand.

 

When he dashed out of his tent, still fiddling with his gloves, he saw a brightly coloured man just a few tents over, juxtaposing the dismal surroundings of the military camp. Burthorpe was a very grey town - the climate meant that for most of the year the place was overcast, shrouded in thick clouds, occasionally drenching the place in rain, just to make it look that much more miserable. Today was one of those days. The brightly coloured man, however, did not seem phased by the dark, or the cold, or the wind or the rain, despite him wearing clothes much more suited to desert climates.

With a grin, Jahaan hurried over to the only man he knew to be that inappropriate in his attire.

“Ozan!” Jahaan exclaimed when he was in earshot.

Ozan turned from the conversation he was engaged in and, upon seeing Jahaan trot over to him, met the man in the middle with a tight embrace. “Jahaan, my man!”

Ozan was a fairly tall gentlemen with a smile that exuded charisma, brightening up even the most miserable of places; he was like a glowing candle in the middle of Burthorpe, a flame that could never be extinguished. His skin was slightly dark, like Jahaan’s, showing his desert origins. An expertly crafted bow was strung over his shoulders, with a large quiver of arrows to accompany it.

“What are you doing here?” Jahaan asked as they released their embrace.

“I was seeing a man about a herb in Taverly, and thought I’d come up to see if you were still alive. Turns out you are! Bravo!”

Hoping the trolls could wait another minute, Jahaan continued, “When did you get here, then? You timed it about right.”

“Crackerjack timing is my style. I literally just got here, and was about to come looking for you, but these fine gentlemen said they hadn’t had a drink in about three weeks, and I just HAD to help their poor souls. Now though, I think I’ll stay for the fun.”

One of the aforementioned soldiers, who was securing his arm guards, asked, “How do you two know each other?”

Ozan grinned. “It’s a long story. Ancient pyramids, lost treasure that turned out to be a bloke… I’ll tell you all about it once we make it out of this nuisance.”

“IF we make it out,” the soldier corrected, crossing himself.

“Oh, not if, WHEN. I’m not dying today.”

Jahaan shook his head in despair. “You really haven't heard of not tempting fate, have you?”

Ozan winked, taking his bow from over his shoulders. “That would only slow me down,” he hopped over the barricade and joined the line of rangers who were readying themselves for the impending assault.

Twisting his steel shortsword around his hands a few times and gripping tightly onto his shield, Jahaan exhaled deeply, before running to the frontline.

 

There were three main fronts the trolls attacked on - east, west and centre. They never were all that coordinated with their attacks and sometimes only attacked one front per raid. Even then, they didn’t pool all their resources into it. Well, what little resources they had. Trolls had numbers that far outweighed what the Imperial Guard managed, but they were outclassed and outweaponed by their human opponents. Despite the numbers advantage, this was rarely utilised; sometimes trolls attacked with only a dozen to their ranks. The working theory was, legitimately, that a few of them got bored and began to cause a ruckus, trying to invade the town for the sheer hell of it.

The brutes were Bandosian, through and through, revelling in war and bloodshed. Bandos, being the War God that all trolls worshipped. Even in his absence of Gielinor, his presence was still felt in the chaos his followers caused.

Jahaan was on centre front, the main one, where the original horn had been blown from. So far, no other horns from the other battlements had sounded, meaning it didn’t look like the trolls were attempting a two-pronged attack today.

With about a dozen rangers on the battlements, another six back by the castle wall, and two dozen melee fighters on the frontline, all soldiers braced themselves for the attack.

 

The battlefield was fought in a small valley, surrounded by rocky mountains at either side, leading up to the Death Plateau. It provided a decent defence in that it streamlined where the trolls could attack from, but at the same time it concentrated their focus onto one small area that lead up to the battlements. On this dismal day, rain was already pouring from the grey skies, creating puddles in the uneven graveled ground beneath them.

Major Rancour stood atop the battlements, looking through her telescope as the trolls advanced. They didn’t have long. Clearing her throat, she drew her shortsword, held it high into the air, and shouted, “They want to burn our homes! They want to destroy our farmland and kill our loved ones! They will not succeed today! Every troll that falls is a crack in the glass house of the troll kingdom, and soon, they will all fall!”

Soldiers all around Jahaan cheered and screamed with bloodlust in their eyes, gripping their weapons tightly as the trolls rounded the final corner, led by the one they knew as General Morningstar.

He stood at twelve feet tall, his rock-covered body a natural armour, only leaving a few sensitive areas of bare flesh that the soldiers knew to target. Yellow and blue warpaint was haphazardly painted across his chest, though it didn’t resemble anything in particular. It seemed like he had small strands of grass growing out of the top of his head; his face sported two huge buck teeth at the front, guarding a large mouth that could devour a man with ease.

With an earth shattering roar, Morningstar motioned for his trolls to attack.

Morningstar’s battlecry couldn’t be matched by all the soldiers on the battlefield, but they gave it a damn good try, charging into battle and engaging the first troll that grunted in their direction.

Fortunately, these trolls were not gifted with the size and stature of their general, most of them standing at between four and six feet. They relied on brawn over brains, and due to their size, agility and speed were their weaknesses - the soldiers knew to keep moving, to get behind their opponent when they could, and aim for the softer skin located on the troll’s belly, the back of their neck, and at the arm and leg joints.

 

“SHIELDS!”

Jahaan didn’t know where the shout was coming from, but instincts kicked in; quickly, he dropped to his knees, his sword falling from his grip as he did so, in order for him to use both hands to brace his iron shield above his head. Every soldier did the same in unison, right as a barrage of rocks came raining down from the sky. It was the crude ariel assault from the trolls. In actuality, it did just as much harm as good, as more often than not the rocks would take out one of their own rank instead of a Burthorpe soldier. Each and every rock than dented his shield caused Jahaan to groan and wince - it wasn’t easy pushing back against that weight, but he survived. As soon as the all clear was given, he swiftly swooped his sword back up into his hands and cut through the first troll he saw, penetrating the soft area of his flesh with ease.

It didn’t take long before the majority of the troll foot soldiers were disposed of, leaving only their general.

 

Morningstar picked up a large boulder and launched it across the battlefield, over the heads of all the foot soldiers and straight into the castle walls. It shattered on impact, crashing large and heavy fragments down on the unprotected rangers, one of them Ozan, who fell to the ground, buried under the rocks. Seeing this, Jahaan went to rush to his side, before Rancour yanked him back by the sleeve of his uniform and motioned in the direction of Morningstar, who was roaring in a frenzy.

“Him first,” she ordered, holding her sword aloft, before charging towards the troll general. Jahaan followed in hot pursuit. When they got close, Morningstar pummelled the ground, causing a shockwave that sent the two of them tumbling to the floor, but they scurried away before the general could capitalise. Rancour swung for the softer flesh of the troll, but Morningstar twisted in time, causing the blade to ricochet off his rocky exterior. Jahaan went for a swing to the head, but Morningstar used his large arm to deflect the blow, throwing a punch at Jahaan in retaliation, who just about managed to roll out of the way to avoid impact. Fortunately, this distraction was enough to allow Rancour to land a significant cut on the kneecap of the general. Morningstar crumbled onto one knee, roaring in pain and fury. He swiped at Rancour with such force that the woman was sent flying back a good thirty feet, landing in a heap near the battlements. Just as Morningstar was about to turn his attention to Jahaan, the troll was too late; Jahaan stabbed his longsword deep into the trolls gut, twisting the blade inside, a fatal wound. He cut diagonally down as he removed the bloodstained sword; swaying and staggering, the troll then collapsed to the ground, breathing his final breath.

Major Rancour picked herself up from the ground, dusted herself off, and called out, “You injured, corporal?”

“No ma’am,” Jahaan exhaled, trying to catch his breath. He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Has anyone checked on Ozan?”

Emerging from the rubble, Ozan rubbed the back of his head and said, “You guys looked like you had everything under control. I thought I’d just hang back for a bit…”

As soon as the young man was in range, Jahaan punched Ozan in the arm. “Don’t you scare me like that again,” his scolding was light, too wrapped up in relief. “I thought we’d lost you there.”

“Ha! It takes more than that to take down-, wait do you hear that?”

It was faint, muffled, but there was the unmistakable sound of…

“Crying?” Jahaan ventured, confused. Looking around, he didn’t see any of his comrades breaking into tears, and it sounded more like a child than any adult.

From behind Morningstar’s corpse, a small, rock-like creature crawled out from a nearby boulder. It weaved its way under Morningstar’s massive arm, up to his large head, and looked into his lifeless eyes. It’s tiny little arms shivered as its disproportionate head nudged Morningstar’s, trying to will the general to wake up. After a few futile attempts, the little creature began to quiver, breaking down into more quiet, whimpering sobs.

The major’s shoulders sagged; she bit her lip, sighing. “Morningstar must’ve been its father. I wish trolls wouldn't always take their children on raids like this...”

One of the soldiers took his bow from over his shoulders and readied an arrow, but his heart wasn’t in it. “It’s a troll… shouldn’t we…”

Taking one look into the round, beady eyes of the baby troll, Jahaan was quick to dispel such an idea. “We can’t kill it, look at it - it can’t be more than a week old.”

Slowly, he edged closer to the baby troll, trying to appear as unthreatening as possible. He was rather unsuccessful, as the troll jumped in fright and hid behind his father’s arm, trembling.

“Hey little fella, don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,” his voice was as soft as cotton wool. Crouching low, he held his hands out in a gesture of peace, not that the troll would be able to comprehend such things. It wasn’t likely he knew much of the common tongue, either. However, there was a universal language he knew the troll would be able to understand. Turning back to Ozan, he asked, “What do you have in your satchel?”

Snapping to attention, Ozan quickly rummaged through the contents of his shoulder bag. “Umm some wine, a dagger, a map, some coal, some rum, a scarf, some different wine…”

Rolling his eyes, Jahaan said, “Gimme the coal.”

Ozan carefully made his may over to Jahaan, trying not to frighten the troll any further. Handing over the coal, Jahaan then held out his hand, and offered the coal to the troll. “Food?”

At this, the troll’s eyes lit up. “Food!” it squeaked, gulping down the small lumps in one go. It wriggled and danced in happiness as the coal slipped down, its eyes shining with delight.

Jahaan felt his heart grow three sizes that day. “Look at him, look how cute he is!”

Ozan plucked up the courage to kneel down beside Jahaan, his face a picture of warmth. “He is rather adorable. Look at his little leaf sticking out of his head, and his little troll pants, and his little pacifier... awwww!”

The major shook her head at the two men cooing over the little creature, but she couldn’t help but crack a smile. “If you two love him that much, why don’t you just adopt him?”

Jahaan and Ozan shared a look, which caused the major to correct, “No, I wasn’t serious!”

Ozan grinned. “Do you think he could handle my heroic adventures?”

“ _ You _ can barely handle your heroic adventures,” Jahaan chuckled in reply. Looking down at the fidgeting baby troll, Jahaan smiled and crossed his legs, inviting the baby troll into his lap. Eagerly, the troll shuffled up to him and cuddled into his thigh. “What’s your name, little fella?”

The troll’s face screwed up. “Name?”

“Trolls are named after the first thing they try to eat,” Major Rancour piped up. “Is that the first thing you’ve eaten, little one?”

The troll nodded, his little arms reaching out for more food. Ozan fished out one last lump of coal from his satchel, which the troll scoffed down, greedily. “Then his name is Coal!”

“Coal!” the troll echoed. “Me Coal! Me want foooooood!”

Jahaan laughed, putting a hand on Ozan's shoulder. “You’ve got your work cut out for you, old friend.”

Jahaan and Ozan were busy enjoying the cute faces Coal was pulling when, from behind them, came a shout:

“Corporal Alsiyad-Abut?”

Jahaan turned around, squinting his eyes to find the source. A lanky man on the battlements holding a note seemed to fit the bill. “That’s me.”

“Commander Denulth wants to see you in his tent.”

Warily, Jahaan and Ozan exchanged worried glances, the former biting back a gulp. With a quick dart of his eyes to Major Rancour, Jahaan saw that she knew nothing about this, worrying him further. In all his time in the Imperial Guard, Jahaan had only a few run-ins with the Commander, none of them pleasant.

Bracing himself, Jahaan climbed up the rope ladder and navigated through the maze of tents before coming across where Commander Denulth was based.

 

“Come in,” the commander grunted when Jahaan appeared at the doorway.

Commander Denulth was a tall, well-built gentlemen, with a small grey moustache and beard combination. His bald head bounced light off it, creating shadow puppets on his dome from the candles. Sturdy steel shoulderplates and arm guards covered his black tunic, the mark of the Imperial Guard emblazoned on the centre. From the waist downwards he was covered in continuous steel, capping off in spike-toed boots. When Jahaan entered the tent, his gruff demeanour only grew tenser, his narrow eyes regarding the young corporal with the same disdain he seemed to hold for everyone and everything, even rabbits. It was a face only a mother could love. 

“Sit down,” he ordered, his low voice gravelly. Immediately, Jahaan obeyed.

Denulth had taken his seat over the other side of his pristine oak desk, picking up a few papers and proceeding to read through them in silence. All the while, Jahaan fumbled his fingers, unsure where to focus his eyes. It felt wrong to stare directly at the commander, but then again, was it rude to look elsewhere? Would that give the impression he was bored? That he wished he could be anywhere else? While the latter might be true - Denulth was a rather imposing man, one you never wanted to be stuck alone with - he didn’t want that to come across. So, instead, he resigned to straighten his shoulders and look at the small hole in the fabric of the tent behind Denulth’s shiny head. While the commander flicked through his papers in agonising silence, occasionally signing a few, Jahaan pretended to imagine all the wonders that could be going on through that little hole in the fabric.

_ They could be holding a celebration? They’d dealt a significant blow in the war against the trolls, after all. Or maybe, slightly more morbid, they’re tending to the wounded through there? Or maybe an evil tree has just spring from the ground and a panicked little leprechaun is freaking out about it? It wouldn’t be the first time. _

It had been five minutes.  _ Has he forgotten about me? _ Jahaan wondered.  _ I’m right here. Like, there’s no way he can’t see me in his peripheral vision. _

Then, the worry he’d kept at the back of his mind started to creep forward and say a friendly little ‘hello’.  _ Am I in trouble? _ Jahaan wrestled through his memory, trying to make a list of all the things he'd done that he knew he shouldn’t have done.  _ It can’t be about Coal. That JUST happened. Is he trying to psych me out? Is this some sort of intimidation tactic? _

If it was, it was working.

“You've been here two years,” the commander stated, so suddenly that it startled Jahaan, causing him to jump. “Turnaround for recruits is usually six months. Why'd you stick around?”

It took too long for Jahaan to remember how his tongue worked, and that it was used to formulate words. Words, in turn, formulated sentences. Marvels of the common tongue.

The expectant, impatient glare Denult shot at him wasn’t helping him with this realisation. Eventually, he stammered a reply, “Burthorpe and Taverley are fine cities with a lot of innocent people. I wanted to do my part to protect them.”

Commander Denulth didn't seem impressed. “Is that true?”

“Yes sir,” Jahaan lied. Well, for the most part. 

“So you think yourself a hero, huh cadet?”

“No sir.”

“Is your story supposed to warm the cockles of my cold heart?”

“No sir.”

“Why'd you join up in the first place?”

Jahaan bit back the urge to smirk. “I wanted to become an excellent swordsman, like you, sir.”

“Oh, are you trying to flirt with me now, cadet?”

“No sir.” 

“Good, then stop with the forced compliments, or you'll make me change my mind.”

Jahaan blinked. “Forgive me, sir, change your mind about what?”

Commander Denulth replied, “I'm sending you to Sir Tiffy. Whether he makes you a Temple Knight or his shoe shiner is up to him.”

_ The Temple Knights!  _ Inwardly, Jahaan gasped. He’d only heard tales about them, It took a beat before Jahaan could stumble through his thoughts well enough to reply, “I-I'm honoured sir, but why?”

Denulth grunted. “Don't give me any false modesty princess bullshit. You're better than most of the cadets here and you know it. I don’t like to see potential wasted on some Bandosian brutes.

Jahaan bit his lip, and against his better judgement, mentioned, “But sir, the Temple Knights are a Saradominist militia. I’m not a Saradominist.”

Denulth rolled his eyes, leaning forward on the desk, which caused Jahaan to lean backwards out of instinct. “All the shit’s I give about what god you pray to could fit into a thimble, cadet. If Tiffy’s smart, he’ll have the same view when it comes to new recruits.” 

He took his seal and stamped the red wax onto a signed letter. Even though the wax was still dripping, he handed it over to Jahaan and said, “You leave at sunrise. When you see him, tell Tiffy to send over some more recruits. Those damn White Knights won’t allow conscription, but we need the warm bodies at the front.”

“Yes sir,” Jahaan bowed as he took the letter, and hurried to exit the tent while his head was still attached to his shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


	3. Knightly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 01: THE TEMPLE KNIGHTS  
> Chapter 2 - Knightly
> 
> After a troll attack on Burthorpe, Jahaan's superiors take an interest in him and send him off to Sir Tiffy with the aim of making him a Temple Knight. However, it's not as easy as signing on the dotted line...

Looking down at the tiny little section of his tent where his bunk sat, Jahaan suddenly felt very sentimental. This ten by ten square of cloth and grass had been his home for the past two years. He’d had bunkmates come and go, but there he remained.

From under his low bed he dragged out a tattered rucksack, dusted it off, and opened it up wide. All that was inside it was his paypackets from his time in the Guard, alongside a thick sweater and an amulet he was given in Menaphos as a child, just before he left the desert city.

Then, he pulled out everything he’d kept over the years from beneath the bed: a small fishing net, an iron dagger he’d smithed himself, a bronze hatchet, a tinderbox, and a handful of runes for some of the simplest of spells.

After carefully packing all of these into his rucksack, he searched around the rest of the tent for some spare rations he could commandeer for his travels. All he managed to find were stale bread rolls and a couple of bruised bananas. Frowning, he packed them anyhow, hoping the Temple Knights would feed him better than he was used to.

“Knock knock,” Ozan called out from outside the tent, poking his head in and examining the lavish surroundings. “You all packed?”

“Yep,” Jahaan confirmed. “Are you sure you want to risk coming to Falador with me? Didn’t you say the White Knights had a warrant out of you for trying to steal Sir Vyvin’s armour?”

Ozan snorted. “I’d rather take my chances with the White Knights than the white wolves on that mountain. I’m sailing to Catherby from Port Sarim, so it’s on my way.”

Shuddering at the thought of traversing White Wolf Mountain - once is enough for a lifetime; very few people survive it twice - Jahaan agreed Ozan’s chances with the Falador army were much better than those beasts. Besides, it gave them a chance to spend some quality time with their adopted troll baby, who as they were talking, chewed at his bunkmates bed linen.

“Seeing Ariane, are we?” Jahaan guessed with a wink.

Ozan broke out into a blush. “Maybe…”

 

The next morning, they were ready to leave. Well, Jahaan was - it took a few kicks to wake Ozan up at the early hour. After saying his goodbyes to his former comrades, Jahaan and Ozan left the principality and headed into Burthorpe’s town centre, making straight for Doric’s armoury. Over his time in the Guard, Jahaan had grown rather fond of the dwarf that owned the shop. He was always on hand to fix his dented armour, reminisce about battles since gone, or just share a pint of ale, or two, or seven...

The little bell rang as soon as Jahaan entered the hut, and he was greeted by a jolly smile from the dwarven store-owner. “Jahaan!” his gruff voice cheered.

However, as soon as the dwarf set his eyes upon Ozan, his warm demeanour slipped away in a heartbeat.

“Hey, no! You! Get out! Get!” he grabbed the newspaper next to him, rolled it up and repeatedly banged it on the counter, occasionally pointing it up at Ozan, who stood baffled in the doorway.

“What?! What have I- HEY!”

The dwarf resorted to throwing things from his perimentre at Ozan, luckily veering towards stationary and papers rather than one of the myriad of weapons that surrounded him. Jahaan didn’t dare step between them, but he tentatively reached his hands out, trying to calm this particular storm without landing a tape measure to his skull. 

“Doric, take it easy!” he pleaded, snapping at Ozan, “Wait outside.”

Still completely perplexed by the dwarf’s hostility, shielding his face with his arms, Ozan wailed, “I haven’t done anything!”

“I find that hard to believe. Now close the door behind you.”

Once he was content Ozan had left, the dwarf untensed his shoulders, calming his angry breathing. Putting down the ruler-turned-spear, he said, “You shouldn’t hang around with scum like him.”

Exhaling deeply, Jahaan straightened his collar out and asked, “What happened between you two?”

“My wife!” he exclaimed, loudly. “He went for my wife!”

“I did not ‘go’ for your wife,” Ozan defended, muffled from beyond the door. “I was just being polite to her!”

From the impact of the hammer Doric threw against the door, the wood splintered quite grandly.

Gruffly, Doric continued, “Philanderin’ cad… I won’t have him anywhere near my shop.”

“Yeah, this does not come as a surprise to me,” Jahaan concurred, ignoring the insulted outcry from outside. “I just came to say my goodbyes. I’m on my way to Falador - Commander Denulth has recommended me for the Temple Knights,” he could barely contain his pride.

The dwarf shared in his glee too, his eyes lighting up like the distant stars. The glint in them was warmer than a thousand candles. Rushing around the counter, he squeezed Jahaan in a tight embrace, nearly crushing Jahaan’s hips as he did. “My boy! I’m so proud of you, laddy. Ahh you’ll make a fine knight. Promise you’ll come back and visit, only without that good-for-nothin’ behind you.”

Winking slyly, Jahaan replied, “How about I promise you that he’ll never step foot in Burthorpe again, lest he lose one of the two things he prizes the most?”

A smirk broke out on Doric’s hardy face. “Sounds fair to me. Oh, before you go, I wanna give you somethin’...”

Brushing off Jahaan’s assurances that he needn’t gift him anything, Doric began rummaging in the back of his shop. When he returned from the store room, he was holding a razor sharp, beautifully crafted, cyan blue dagger. He offered it up to Jahaan, who’s shining eyes were transfixed on the perfect blade, mouth agape. “I’ve just started smithin’ runite. This one turned out the best.”

Jahaan breathed out, slowly. He’d never even held runite before. “For… for me?”

“That’s right, laddy. Here, take it.”

Very delicately, Jahaan plucked the dagger from Doric’s hands, holding it as gentle as if it were a newborn baby.

Laughing, Doric exclaimed, “Those things are meant for fightin’, you don’t need to be so scared of the damn thing. Hold it like a man!”

Feeling more comfortable with Doric’s assurance, Jahaan switched up his stance and twirled the blade around it fingers, a trick he’d learnt from a fellow guardsman a year back.

“That’s my boy!” Doric slapped Jahaan on the back, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re a good lad. Don’t die out there.”

Tucking the blade in his belt, Jahaan smiled warmly. “Don’t worry, I don’t plan to.”

 

When Jahaan emerged from Doric’s store, he saw Ozan had given the storefront a wide berth. The younger man’s eyes shot to Jahaan’s hip, eyes wide and shining. “Whoa, is that a dagger in your belt, or are you just happy to see me?”

Grinning, Jahaan took it from his hip and allowed Ozan to carefully inspect it. “A parting gift from Doric. He told me to castrate you with it if you returned to Burthorpe.”

Instantly, Ozan pushed the blade back in Jahaan’s direction. “Well, I’ll cross this off my holiday destination list then.”

“Seriously though, Doric’s WIFE?”

“I didn’t know she was his wife!” Ozan protested, like a child desperately proclaiming he didn’t spill the ink while covered head to toe in it. “Come on, we can probably make it to Taverley in time for dinner if we pick up the pace. This pretty face does not scream ‘wild camping’.”

 

They made it to Taverley by twilight. At Ozan’s insistence, they stayed at one of the nicest little bed and breakfasts in the small town. In exchange for a few gold coins and a couple of pints, Ozan regaled the patrons of the establishment with daring tales of how he defeated the legendary ‘three-headed mountain jackal of Nardah’ with only a slingshot and some rotten fruit. Naturally, he’d  _ embellished  _ a little… the jackal only had one head, and he had a bow and arrow to fight it off. The only reason it was vicious in the first place was that, drunkenly, Ozan thought it’d be funny to throw a rotten apple at it. Still, the patrons seemed to get a kick out of the tale, and Jahaan wasn’t about to pass up free ale.

The next morning, after a hearty breakfast for themselves and a half a can of garbage for Coal, they set off for Falador.

 

The crisp, beautiful weather of northern Gielinor shined on them that morning; glistening dew graced the grasslands that bordered their pathway, while the early morning sun bathed everything in an amber glow, carving out a picturesque scenery that stretched out before them. Along their travels, they encountered many other citizens making their journeys between the two cities. Some pushed carts full of wares and goods to market wherever the market took them; Jahaan had to drag Ozan away by his hair on more than one occasion - the man was like a magpie for anything shiny.

Coal was testing out his little legs to the maximum, determined to keep up with the two of them. The poor thing was barely as high as their shins, so Ozan and Jahaan took it in turns to let him sit on their shoulder as they traversed the pathways. Coal’s eyes shined with glee at the excitement of being up high.

 

They reached the high walls of Falador by twilight, white bricks tinted pink in the evening shadow. Half a dozen White Knights stood watch outside the entrance, with more pacing the fortifications above them.

Suddenly, Ozan stopped walking and passed Coal to Jahaan. With a wince, he hopped backwards a few steps. “Uhh you two go on without me. I’ll find a more interesting way inside.”

Rolling his eyes, Jahaan pointed out, “I thought you said they wouldn’t remember.”

“I did? Well…” he laughed nervously. “I mean, they probably wouldn’t, but… they have big swords, and after all that walking, I really don’t fancy having to make a run for it. You know, IF they happened to remember. Which they probably wouldn’t. But-”

“Just go,” Jahaan interrupted, shaking his head with a grin. “I’ll meet you at the Rising Sun Inn. If you don’t get thrown in the castle dungeon, that is…”

 

Modern day Falador was founded in the Year 8 of the Fifth Age, and with a population of over a hundred thousand, it stood as one of the largest cities in all of Gielinor, and the capital of the Asgarnia region. Citizens came from far and wide to trade in the market square that bustles from dawn to dusk, or to enjoy the variety of inns offering a wide range of scrumptious dishes. The main attraction, however, was the White Knights Castle, the largest fortress in the Saradominist world, managing to stand superior to the castles of the kings in surrounding regions. Though technically Falador was still a kingdom, the king - King Vallance - has no power in the city. As he is very old and very ill, the White Knights gained political supremacy in his absence, and in order to ‘protect’ the king, they moved him to an undisclosed location. Many speculate the king is long since dead, but voicing such rumours isn’t wise if one values their tongue. The impressive military of the White Knights and the Faladian City Guards have long held back sieges from the Black Knights of the North, along with keeping at bay smaller Zamorakian plots and civil unrest spurred from those not content with the vice-like grip the Knights hold on the city.

 

With a friendly nod to the Knights he passed, Jahaan stepped forward into the perfectly paved, pristine city of Falador. Instantly, the crowds hit him, a pained cry from the blissful serenity outside the walls. Knowing he’d have to be ruthless, Jahaan steeled himself and weaved his way determinedly through the masses, mercilessly carving a path for himself. Though he tried his best to dodge and weave, sometimes a stern shunt to the shoulder is necessary to kick-start the idle legs of lazy tourists.

It’d been quite a while since Jahaan had last been in Falador, but he was too proud to ask for directions. Deciding the main road was doing nothing for his sanity, he thought it’d be wise to try and bypass the crowds by dipping into the side streets and making his way across the city through them.

About an hour later, and after passing the same barber’s three times, he regretted everything.

“Ozan better spin a really good tale to buy us dinner…” he grumbled to himself, continuing through the darkening city in what he hoped was the right direction. Coal was already growling with hunger; it took a lot of energy he didn’t have to keep the troll from trying to eat everything they passed.

After gods knew how long, he finally stumbled into the Rising Sun Inn, just as the sun had set. Ozan was already waiting there, at the bar, surrounded by two ladies and three pints of ale. Seeing an exhausted Jahaan stagger over the the bar top, he tutted and said, “And here I thought you were standing me up. Thank goodness I had these lovely young ladies to console my wounded heart.”

Trying and failing to a muster a polite smile to Ozan’s company, Jahaan slumped over the bar and motioned for a drink. “Dinner’s on you,” was all he said before he closed his eyes and tried to remember what silence sounded like.

 

Jahaan didn’t fully remember the large roast lamb Ozan had ordered for the two of them, accompanied by another two pints of ale. He didn’t remember Ozan joining in with the local musician who sang Oh Tales of The Elves three times on Ozan’s behest, until the patrons were so sick of it they threw a shoe at him. Jahaan didn’t remember the bar fight that ensued, not after the shoe incident - Ozan had shrugged that off with a laugh - but when he overheard someone saying he sounded like a strangled oxen. He didn’t remember four pints of ale dotted between these events, or the three that followed. He didn’t even remember going to bed, so it was quite a shock when he woke up with Ozan curled up next to him, sporting a fearsome looking black eye and cuddling Coal.

Jahaan’s pounding, swirling head, however, did not thank him for it. After revisiting last night in half a bucket, Jahaan at least felt well enough to rouse Ozan. However, he quickly thought better of it - the last time he dealt with one of Ozan’s hangover’s still gave him nightmares.

Instead, he stretched out his muscles, picked up his dagger and backpack, and went downstairs to eat the blandest thing on the inn’s menu.

A hearty breakfast of weak tea and unbuttered bread later, Jahaan was ready to face the world. Then, he opened the door, and shrivelled as the midday sun pierced his retinas and scorched his very soul, igniting his previously dulled headache.

“This is going to be a long day…” Jahaan sighed to himself, taking a deep breath before making his way towards Falador Park.

 

Falador was home to the largest park inside of any city in Gielinor; thirty acres of lush grass and neatly plotted flowerbeds, all attentively tended to by farmers from across the city. Alongside beautiful rows of multi-coloured petals were many patches of crops that helped feed the citizens of the Kingdom of Asgarnia.

The man he needed to speak to - Sir Tiffy Cashien - was known for spending most afternoons by one of the ponds in Falador Park. It stretched a quarter of the length of the city, with ponds, fields, trees and flower gardens to while away the hours around. The last time Jahaan had passed through, he saw the revered Knight gleefully feeding the hungry ducks half a loaf of bread in the oval shaped pond near the centre of the park, but he’d never dared approach the man before. In all honesty, Jahaan was rather embarrassed to introduce himself. He didn’t want to look like a fool, or trip over his words, or his laces, or anything that fate would deign rather amusing in front of one of his heroes.

After wandering the perimeter enough to confidently shake off his hangover, or at least shrink it to a reasonable size, he made towards the oval pond.

Here, predictably, he found Sir Tiffy Cashien sipping delicately at a cup of tea.

Before he started to approach him, however, his eyes caught sight of the six marble statues bordering the eastern edge of the pond. Halting in his tracks, he swallowed down bile that rose to his throat. The familiar eyes of the statues seemed to be following him, staring through his very being.

Taking a long, quivering breath, Jahaan shook his head, as if to physically shake the thoughts from his mind. Then, he steadied his resolve back to the task at hand.

Rummaging through his backpack, he plucked out the sealed envelope and, with as much grace and confidence as he could muster, walked up to the knight.

Sir Tiffy’s Temple Knight armour gleamed in the sunlight, wrapping around him like a golden cloak. Despite his age, his physical stature was still rather impressive, and his accolades spoke for themselves: decorated warrior, expert swordsman, and a soldier in the War of 164. Now he headed up recruitment for the Temple Knights, a Saradominist military organisation. Jahaan had always dreamed of meeting the man in person, only hearing tales of his bravery and valour around campfires in Burthorpe.

When Jahaan approached, he was greeted with an astonishingly welcoming smile that warmed his heart. “Good day, m’lad! How may I help you?”

“Sir Tiffy Cashien,” Jahaan kelt, bowing his head low. “I bring correspondence from Commander Denulth of the Imperial Guard of Burthorpe.”

If he had been looking into his eyes, Jahaan would have noticed Sir Tiffy sour at the name. “Hm. I hope this here isn’t another conscription request. I say, I get about one a month, what?”

After motioning for Jahaan to rise, Sir Tiffy carefully prised off the seal, slipped the letter out of its envelope and readjusted his monocle before beginning to read. The natural friendliness in his features gradually returned the further down he read. Once he was done, he carefully folded the letter up and tucked it away into his little satchel, regarding Jahaan with a curious expression.

“The commander has a lot to say about you, young lad,” Sir Tiffy remarked. “He thinks I should make you a Temple Knight. What do you make of that?”

As he rehearsed, Jahaan replied, “It would be an honour to serve the kingdom, sir.”

“Ah, but we don’t just serve the kingdom, m’lad - we serve Saradomin,” Sir Tiffy pointed out. As he spoke, his long white beard tickled his chin, and it made him smile even more. There was an air of joy about the man as he fumbled his way around a sentence, sipping his tea intermittently and with delight. “Are you a Saradominist, son?”

Jahaan bit the inside of his lip. “Yes sir.”

It didn’t fool Sir Tiffy, evidently, as the man raised an eyebrow and pressed, “Are you really, lad? To be honest, it doesn’t really matter to me - unless you’re a Zamorakian, you can become a Temple Knight. Traditions aren’t my cup of tea. Tea is my cup of tea, here. Are you a Zamorakian, my boy?”

“No sir.”

“Guthixian, perhaps? You spent a lot of time with them up there in Burthorpe,” Sir Tiffy guessed, curiosity growing tenfold when Jahaan said he wasn’t. “Well, what then?” his eyebrows narrowed. “You aren’t another one of those cabbage worshippers, are you? Son, if I come across another one of those nutrition-guided fanatics I’ll-”

“I’m not particularly religious, sir,” Jahaan broke in, trying not to smirk at Sir Tiffy’s flurry. “I mean, I grew up in the desert, and they have the Pantheon, but I wouldn’t call myself an avid practicer of anything.”

Sir Tiffy seemed a little perturbed by this. “Not religious, m’lad? Hmph. Rare to see one of those nowadays. Well, better than the cabbage god.”

Taking the final sip of his tea, Sir Tiffy took his time to breathe in the fresh air around him, admiring the ducklings playing in the nearby pond. “I’ve got something that needs urgent attention, but these ol’ bones weren’t meant for travelling. One of our operatives - Sir Tendeth - is on his way back from a reconnaissance mission, gathering information about a possible attack on human settlements. He’ll be sailing back from Mos Le'Harmless tonight. Go to Port Sarim to meet him, and bring him back here safely. He's undercover, so he’ll probably be dressed as a pirate. Help me here, and I’ll make you a Temple Knight in no time.”

Suppressing his urge to grin in excitement, Jahaan once again bowed low. “Yes sir!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


	4. As Rum Can Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 01: THE TEMPLE KNIGHTS  
> Chapter 3 - As Rum Can Be
> 
> After a troll attack on Burthorpe, Jahaan's superiors take an interest in him and send him off to Sir Tiffy with the aim of making him a Temple Knight. However, it's not as easy as signing on the dotted line...

When Jahaan made it back to the inn, he wasn’t surprised to find Ozan still fast asleep, and still clutching onto Coal. After eating about two and a half bar stools last night, the little troll had clearly worn himself out.

Ozan also had to go to Port Sarim, so against his better judgement, Jahaan decided to disturb the slumbering beast.

It wasn’t pretty, but an hour later, they were ready to depart.

“Arrggg it burns!” Ozan cried, shrivelling up like a prune as soon as the sunlight hit him. “I’m blind! Blind I tell you!”

Smugness taking over him, Jahaan smiled down at his suffering friend. “I won’t lie to you - I’m enjoying this. Now come on, we’ve got to make it to the docks by evening.”

 

Gradually, Ozan recovered as they walked through the city and towards the gates. Unfortunately, in their slightly dreary state, the pair of them forgot the wanted sign on Ozan’s head. This caused the two of them to snatch up Coal and make an abrupt dash away from Falador, running long enough and fast enough to outrun the White Knights that began to pursue them.

Collapsing against the tree, the two men doubled over, gasping for breath through raspy throats. Ozan pushed himself off the bark and immediately fell over, toppling to the ground, groaning in pain.

Mercilessly, Jahaan kicked him in the side. He tried to get some words out, but his breathlessness decided against it.

Ozan mumbled something into the grass. Jahaan kicked him again.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming…” Ozan grumbled, dragging himself to his feet. Jahaan allowed the younger man to rest on his shoulder as they limped along.

 

The rest of the journey was rather uneventful, and gladly so. Port Sarim wasn’t far away at all, and the roads were fairly well-travelled, so it was pleasant to see the comers and goers travelling that afternoon too. Ozan was well-behaved when it came to the merchant carts, apart from one from a glassblower, all the way from the Kandarin region. From his wares, Ozan spotted a petite purple and green flower ornament, impeccably crafted. With ease, Ozan negotiated him down to a reasonable price. The man’s smile was blinding when he finally held his purchase delicately in his hands.

“It’s Ariane’s favourite colour,” he explained, proudly. “I don’t like to give gifts that wind up dead within a week. This’ll last longer than an actual rose.”

Even Jahaan was touched at the gesture. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”

Ozan had to pass Coal over to Jahaan to stop the troll from trying to eat his new trinket; it took a spare pair of gloves to sate the little troll’s stomach, but the two enjoyed watching him munch away eagerly at the battered leather.

 

It didn’t take too long before they reached Port Sarim. Having since expanded beyond a simple small fishing town, Port Sarim had become a haven for travellers, tourists and merchants alike. Jewelry stores bought and sold gold, magic and rune shops were dotted around the outskirts of the town, and even a battleaxe store managed to make its way into the fray, if you’re partial to such a brutish weapon. After all, you never know when you might need a big axe.

Port Sarim was also home to the biggest jailhouse in Gielinor, one that Ozan had frequented so many times he might as well have a loyalty card. Jahaan himself had ended up there one time, side by side with Ozan, but had managed to pick the lock and escape when a lazy guard was on duty. Honestly, the place had the security of a bird cage compared to the fearsome dungeons in other regions of Gielinor.

 

Naturally, the main attraction for Port Sarim were the docks themselves, providing cheap and convenient travel to many places across Gielinor. Being the largest port in the world, you were only a collection of coins and a few hours on the serene away seas from being on another continent. The clear blue waters of the sea splashed gracefully against the port walls, magnificent ships floating in the calm bay.

On the North Dock were the monks that chartered ships to Entrana. The holy island of Entrana was free to travel to, as long as one didn’t carry any dangerous equipment on their persons. It was a Saradominist colony, but in an attempt to expand their ‘flock’, followers of a handful of other religions were allowed to visit. No Zamorakians, though. That was very strict. Having never tried to sail there, Jahaan didn’t even know if he’d be permitted.

The Centre Dock was home to the Lady Lumbridge, in dire need of repair. Once a formidable ship, it was in tatters compared to its former glory. It was a miracle the crew managed to sail it back from Crandor in the state it was in. While the common stories say a bad storm battered it to pieces, the crewmen swear up and down the damage was caused by dragons. Jahaan was among the scarce few that believed their tale.

Also on the Centre Dock were the Void Knights, sailing those who wished to fight against the pest onslaught on the Outpost. Valiant soldiers sailed there every day to stem the tide of the invasion.

The Southern Dock was the most versatile, allowing for travel to many other ports across Gielinor, spanning multiple continents and islands.It was on Jahaan’s bucket list to travel to every single available destination, from the haunted city of Port Phasmatys, to the ogre encampment of Oo’glog, all the way to the western point of the world with the elven port, Port Tyras.

On the West Dock, pirates made an honest living sailing ships to Brimhaven, where access to other parts of Karamja was possible. This would be where Sir Tendeth was coming from. Jahaan had yet to sail to Karamja, but he’d heard the horror stories. Prior to its colonisation, Karamja was overrun with savages who partook in deadly murderous rituals to their gods. Many of these tribes still took over a large portion of the continent, known for attacking any outsider that ventured too close to their camps, usually with a poison-tipped spear. Needless to say, the pirates were known as the civilised ones in comparison, and that was saying something.

 

While they waited for their respective ships, the two men - and troll - decided to spent the hours in the next best thing about Port Sarim: The Rusty Anchor Inn. Because Port Sarim is such a major travel hub, the inn's customers were very diverse in background. Whilst sailors and workmen were its main market, many temporarily visiting the Port also stopped at the inn. The inn was popular amongst pirates, who were generally welcomed despite their violations of maritime law. The wide variations of ales and the splendid bar food was what kept The Rusty Anchor as popular as ever; the chaotic pub floor was crawling with guests from every corner of Gielinor.

Despite the hangover, Ozan ordered a pint of rum, justifying it as ‘chasing the dragon’. Shaking his head with despair, Jahaan ordered a fry-up and a glass of water.

Before long, Ozan’s ship to Catherby was ready to depart, and Jahaan waved him off from the dock. Coal waved a tiny little arm back too, which was delightfully cute. They’d promised to see each other again very soon, Ozan saying he’ll made a trip back to Falador in a fortnight or so to see Jahaan as a prestigious Temple Knight, and to allow Coal to spend some time with his OTHER father.

 

Two hours later and a call was made saying that Shippy-McShipFace was sailing into the West Dock, so Jahaan went out to greet Sir Tendeth. From descriptions he’d heard previously, he was looking for a small, black-haired gentlemen. Unfortunately, almost everyone who left the ship seemed to fit that description. On his tiptoes, Jahaan tried to see over the crowds for anyone who carried themselves like a knight, though potentially still uncover as a pirate. Eventually, Jahaan resorted to calling out his name, his heart filling with relief when a man shot a look at him from the gangplank. He was wearing a cream and brown striped shirt with baggy cotton pants, a pirate’s hat atop his head and an eyepatch over his left eye. A steel scimitar rested in a sheath at his hip.

The man’s right eye was wild and flitting erratically; he checked looking over his shoulder, and practically jumped out of his skin when someone accidentally nudged into him.

Jahaan tried not to let that phase him as he met the man at the end of the dock.

“Sir Tendeth,” he greeted with a humble bow. “Sir Tiffy sent me to you to find out about a possible attack, and to escort you back to Falador. Are you worried pirates are planning to attack Falador?”

Instead, Sir Tendeth flinched backwards, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “Who are you? Are you one of them? I’m warning you, I’ll kill you, I will.”

The knight’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, and Jahaan lept backwards, his hands up in a calming gesture. “Sir, calm down! One of whom?”

“Them!” he insisted, growling. “They’re coming for us all. Judgement from the gods, I say! They’re going to burn us all!”

At this point, people were giving Sir Tendeth a wide berth, quickly hurrying past him without making eye contact. 

_ Okay, pirates don’t exactly have that M.O… _ Jahaan thought to himself, curiosity growing. To Sir Tendeth, he suggested, “Why don’t we have a drink to calm your nerves a tad, eh? Some rum, perhaps?”

At this, Sir Tendeth seemed to soften slightly, mumbling, “Yes, rum… rum is good…”

 

Once Jahaan got Sir Tendeth settled at the bar, buying him a round of the strongest rum, the knight’s nerves seemed to calm significantly, and Jahaan felt the courage to say, “I’m a little confused… from what I gathered, you went undercover as a pirate, and they’re planning to attack the mainland… with fire?”

Taking a large swig of the rum bottle, Sir Tendeth pushed off his eyepatch and rubbed underneath. “Pirates? No lad, pirates attack ships, not cities. I was following intel on a much bigger threat. One that's a danger to fortified cities, ships, pirates, sheep farmers, old men wearing party hats... everyone!”

Suddenly, a loud, ear-piercing screech is heard from outside.

Jahaan’s throat became dry. “What’s that noise? Why am I filled with an intense feeling of dread?”

Sir Tendeth grabbed ahold of Jahaan’s hand and shook it manically; his huge eyes didn’t dare blink, and his skin had turned as white as a sheep. “They’re here! They found me! We’re all doomed, I tell you!”

Before Jahaan could go and investigate, the front door to the pub - along with most of the front wall - was smashed into rubble by a large fireball that fell from the skies. Jahaan just about managed to avoid being burnt alive by diving over the bar counter, but smoking debris from the explosion still rained down on him, covering him in a thick layer of smouldering wood and ash.

Fighting past the ringing in his ears, Jahaan tried to listen out for that haunting screech over the sounds of chaos and confusion, but it wasn’t possible - they all blurred into one frightening melody.

Coughing violently, Jahaan pushed himself up through the rubble, managing to get to his knees before he called out, “Sir Tendeth!”

The smoke impaired his vision, seeping into his eyeballs as well as his lungs. “Sir Tendeth, are you alright?”

A hand shot up from over the other side of the broken bar counter. “I-I’m fine… I just need a minute…”

Jahaan pulled himself to his feet, peered over the bar counter, and confirmed that Sir Tendeth was indeed unharmed, aside from a view bruises here and there. However, he was shaking like a leaf.

After a deep breath, Jahaan braced himself to survey the damage. Unfortunately, those closest to the door when the fireball struck hadn’t managed to escape in time. Others further out were wounded, being tended to be any lucky enough to come out relatively unscathed. Three men were already hurrying back and forth with buckets, trying to extinguish the fire.

“I’m going to go out and investigate,” Jahaan declared.

“Y-You go r-right ahead,” Sir Tendeth stammered, hugging himself. “I-I’ll just… um…”

With that, Sir Tendeth huddled into himself back on the floor.  _ Poor bloke looked traumatised. _

Climbing over the destruction, Jahaan struggled past the smoke and ash to make his way outside. There, the extent of the damage really unfolded; wooden buildings were engulfed in flames with people rushing around desperately trying to put them out, while others tended to the wounded and nursed their injuries. The glorious port town of Port Sarim had been broken in half. Almost all of the ships had been attacked by fire - now, the Lady Lumbridge  _ definitely  _ was beyond repair, and its crewmen mourned its loss.

 

Jahaan saw a sailor leaning against one of the more sturdy buildings, dousing himself with water from a well, and approached him. “Excuse me, did you see what happened?”

“I were walking along, minding me own business, when something chucked a ruddy-great big fireball at me!”

Gasping, Jahaan pressed, “Did you see who did it?!”

The worker replied, “No, I were too busy writhing in pain.”

“I see what ‘appened,” a voice from nearby called out. Turning to the left, Jahaan spotted a somewhat scorched pirate - Patchy - taking a gulp of dark liquid from a bottle, sitting on the ground and clutching his leg. “Ow, me bones! Arr, I'll likely be needing a peg-leg now.”

“Oh, that’s terrible!” Jahaan fretted.

Shrugging, Patchy replied, “It ain't so bad - they be quite teh fashion with us pirates.”

Considering this, Jahaan commending his ability to see the silver lining. Then, he asked, “So, you saw who did this?”

“Arr. Dragons, I tell ye.”

“Dragons did this?”

“Aye, they be bony dragons,” the pirate affirmed, taking another swig.

Jahaan inquired, “What, like a wyvern?”

“Nah, these stood tall like men. Taller. And I swear one of ‘em said something,” the pirate explained, soothingly rubbing his bruised leg.

“Where did they go?”

“The forest way, I tell ye, but don’t you’s be going after ‘em, lad!”

“I won’t,” Jahaan lied, quickly making his way towards the forest to the east in the hopes that they were still there. Now, what he was going to do if he did confirm there were, indeed, dragons attacking cities, he did not know. However, he needed to see it with his own eyes first…

 

Heading into the forest, Jahaan made sure to be as light-footed as possible as he ducked for cover between trees, trying to be stealthy as to not to alert anyone of his presence. As soon as he heard gruff voices coming from deeper inside the forest, he proceeded with increased caution, nimbly creeping through the undergrowth.

Before long, silhouettes emerged from between the leaves and branches that were protecting Jahaan from being noticed, and the sight sent a cold chill up and down his spine.

Just like the pirate’s description, the creatures did indeed stand upright, like men, though slightly taller. They were svelte, olive green scales defining their limbs elegantly, but the way their features were sculpted… they didn’t look like they were born - they looked like they were carved. Their tucked wings were as delicately decorated as stained glass, but razor sharp at the edges, terrifying to behold. Both of them seemed to be wearing some sort of tunic, black with gold trimming, with an unfamiliar symbol centre on their chest. One of them wore a navy blue hooded cape that draped loosely over his lizard-like skull. The other’s cape was crimson, its hood resting downwards, allowing the mohawk of feathers atop his head to blow in the stiff breeze.

They didn’t look like any dragon he’d ever seen - well, he’d seen two, so the bar was low - but they were certainly…  _ dragon-esque. _

“Grah! Rage subsides for now. Destruction eases the pain,” the creature’s voice sounded like it was ingesting gravel as it spoke.

“Yet rage continues to build,” the other one contributed. “Someone must still be using the Stone of Jas.”

The first dragon-like creature roared. “Then we should attack more. More shall suffer. Mass destruction will ease pain.”

“Yes! But we must also continue our search - we must find the Vosk. The False User.”

“Soon, Sithaph,” the first dragon assured. “The Kalist will bring us to him. The False User will suffer as we suffer.”

The two of them ascended to the skies, screaming as they entered the clouds and faded away into the horizon.

Jahaan fell back against the tree he was hiding behind. “Attack  _ more _ ?” he muttered to himself. “This is bad. I need to go back to Sir Tiffy.”

 

It took a LOT of persuasion to get Sir Tendeth to even step outside the ruins of the bar, let alone make his way back to Falador. In his paranoia, the man was convinced he heard that haunting screech at every turn, thought he saw their swooping shadows above him constantly. To be fair, the knight hadn’t been back on land for more than half an hour before the port was attacked, so he had just cause to be terrified.

Despite it being night time now, Sir Tiffy was still waiting by the pond, a fresh cup of tea in hand, enjoying the evening air.

When he saw Jahaan and Sir Tendeth approaching, he almost spilled his tea in excitement, quickly setting it down before a spillage could occur.

“Tendeth!” he exclaimed, jollily. “You tough ol’ cookie, I knew you’d make it back!”

However, Sir Tendeth didn’t even look Tiffy in the eye, vacantly staring off into the middle distance as his bottom lip quivered, unable to form a single word.

Sir Tiffy crinkled his brow. “What’s wrong with him, old chap?”

Jahaan winced, scratching the back of his head. “He’s… a little shaken. Long story short, the threat Sir Tendeth was pursuing turned out to be dragons. They attacked Port Sarim almost as soon as he docked there!”

Tiffy’s mouth fell open. “Dragons!” his wild gesture knocked the tea cup over, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Are you sure, my lad?”

“Yes sir,” Jahaan confirmed. “And not just any dragons - they were weird, bony, almost humanoid. And they spoke! I followed them through the forest, and they talked about attacking again!”

“I say, this is absolutely dastardly! The creatures you speak of, they sound familiar. They sound like dragonkin. Legends of the Fourth Age talk of such creatures. They've not been seen in my lifetime, though, and I've been around for a good old while, what?”

Tiffy stood up and decisively announced, “We will go to Falador Castle and bring this information to some of my most trusted companions. The circle should stay small for now, old chap, until we know exactly who - or what - we’re dealing with. Don’t want to incite a panic now, do we? Are you with me, lad?”

Saluting, Jahaan exclaimed, “Yes sir!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


	5. Calm Before The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 02: RITUAL OF THE MAHJARRAT  
> Chapter 1 - Calm Before The Storm
> 
> With the Mahjarrat Ritual upon them, Jahaan, Sir Tiffy and the others venture into the frozen North in an attempt to curtail Lucien’s latest power grab and reclaim the Staff of Armadyl. But a bloodchilling battle of the Mahjarrat might be the least of their worries...

Nobody batted an eyelid when Sir Tiffy brought a pirate and an armed stranger through the gates of Falador Castle. I suppose when you have as much respect as Sir Tiffy had garnered over the years, nobody dares to question you anymore. Jahaan tried not to look too much like a tourist as he marvelled at the battlements, or the knights and squires still training under the moonlight. He reminded himself to act professional - he was still technically on a job interview, after all.

Quitely, Sir Tiffy led Jahaan into a small study, saying to make himself at home while he fetched a few comrades. Also, he thought it’d be a good idea to put Sir Tendeth to bed - the man had experienced quite enough stress for one day, so a good night’s sleep was definitely deserved.

Jahaan didn’t get much solitude before the door to the tiny study opened and people began to emerge through.

First through the door was Idria, a beige-robe donned Guardian of Armadyl. Her blonde hair was hidden under a draping hood; the crest of Armadyl was emblazoned on her torso. The Guardians of Armadyl were a human-led military order that tasked themselves with protecting the Staff of Armadyl, an Elder Artifact their diety - Armadyl, funnily enough - once carried. Jahaan and Idria had met briefly before; the former tried a weak, welcoming smile, but her scowl shot it to pieces.

Next was Akrisae, a priest of Saradomin and a part of the Temple Knight order, wearing gilded navy and white robes, the star of Saradomin on his chest.

Lastly was Thaerisk Cemphier, the current leader of an underground organisation of druids called the Crux Eqal. His beige robes were laced with green, the colour of the deity of all the druids - Guthix.

_ Quite a ragtag band of religions we have here, _ Jahaan inwardly commented. Clearing his throat, he introduced himself to the arrivals as they passed him, gathering around a small rectangular table.

“Thank you all for gathering here at such an hour,” Sir Tiffy sat down at the head of the table, placing a quaint china teacup in front of him. He stirred the tea thoughtfully with a little teaspoon. “I shall get right down to it. The Temple Knights have been running an investigation on some disturbances around Gielinor. Such disturbances include, but are not limited to, an attack from dragonkin.”

Akrisae sunk into the chair below him. “Saradomin help us… dragonkin?!”

“Are you sure, Tiffy?” Idria placed her hands on her hips, huffing. “This isn’t like the time when you thought penguins had a secret spy network and were roaming around disguised as rocks, is it?”

Tiffy’s eyes narrowed. “That was real, and so is this. Jahaan saw it with his very eyes, didn’t you lad?”

Nodding solemnly, Jahaan confirmed, “They attacked Port Sarim, and I followed them into the forest. They plan to attack again, saying something about the Stone of Jas, and a ‘False User’.”

Thaerisk closed his eyes, taking a deep, contemplative breath. “Alright. Assuming this is all true, let’s look at this logically. We know that the dragonkin's power is related to use of the Stone of Jas - as the Stone is used, their power increases, and they can become powerful enough to wipe out an entire world. These recent attacks imply that the Stone is currently being used, and frequently.”

“Do we have any leads on who has the Stone of Jas?” Jahaan inquired. Instead of replying, the assembled group traded uncomfortable glances with one another, an awkward silence settling.

Eventually, Tiffy was the one brave enough to speak up and announce, “Lucien has it.”

“WHAT?!” Jahaan roared, choking on the lump in his throat.

“Lucien has the Stone of Jas, old chap,” Tiffy sullenly repeated. “We’ve been monitoring him for a while now, ever since… well, hmph. He now has the Stone AND the Staff of Armadyl.”

“H-How could you let this happen?” Jahaan sputtered, feeling sick. “TWO Elder Artifacts in the hands of one power-hungry Mahjarrat!”

Idria pushed Jahaan’s arm forcefully around to face her. “Hey, you of all people have no right to take that attitude, alright?”

The two of them locked eyes, gazes that could melt mithril, until Jahaan finally relented. “You’re right. Forgive me.”

Turning back to Tiffy, he asked, “Is that why Sir Tendeth was on Mos Le’Harmless?”

Nodding, Tiffy replied, “Correct, my lad. That’s where Lucien was last reported. Seems like he’s moved on now - the trail’s gone cold, what?”

“Then perhaps I can be of some assistance…”

Everyone shot towards the sound of the disturbance, originating at the doorway. There, an overly tall gentlemen of svelte build, dressed in the type of desert clothing that was common among the merchant class and many archeologists. His baggy pants tucked into rugged boots, and a lightweight overcoat draped over his shoulders. Grey hairs started to sprout through his brown roughly-kept bowl cut, a moustache and beard to match.

Instantly, Akrisae stood protectively in front of Idria, who instantly dodged back in front of him with an annoyed glare. The former exclaimed, “Who are you? How did you get in here? Guards!”

Jahaan swiftly jumped between the perturbed party and the newcomer. “Akrisae wait! Everyone, this is Ali the Wise. He's a friend of mine who happens to know a lot about the Mahjarrat. I'm surprised to see you here, though. You're a long way from Nardah. And… how did you get in here?”

“An acquaintance of mine was nearby when the dragonkin struck,” Ali the Wise explained, “He was the one who told me of the attack. How or why I’m here isn’t important as we have more pressing concerns. Particularly, if Lucien truly has the Stone of Jas, he  _ needs  _ to be stopped.”

“Tell us something we don’t know,” Thaerisk said, dryly. He was still uncomfortable in Ali’s presence.

“I intend to,” Ali replied, his tone hinting that he was oblivious to Thaerisk’s undertones. “I know where Lucien will be, very soon from now. Jahaan, remember what I told you of the rituals the Mahjarrat have to perform?”

“There’s two,” Jahaan recalled. “The Ritual of Rejuvenation, and the Ritual of Enervation.”

Ali continued, “Correct. I have been studying the stars, and by my calculations, the next Ritual of Rejuvenation is imminent, where the Mahjarrat sacrifice one of their own to rejuvenate themselves. As a Mahjarrat himself, Lucien is compelled to attend.”

Akrisae rubbed the bridge of his nose, mumbling, “Lucien… the dragonkin… and now some Mahjarrat ritual? What more could go wrong?”

“I think you're looking at this the wrong way… Akrisae, isn't it?” Ali responded, “We could use the Mahjarrat ritual to our advantage. I am sure there will be Mahjarrat there who will also want to defeat Lucien. Who better to defeat Lucien than his own kind? If you combine your forces with theirs, it might be enough to beat him, even if he is using the Stone of Jas.”

Idria laughed a short, derisive laugh. “Are you mad? If you think any of us will work with one evil Mahjarrat to get rid of another, you can think again!”

“I've encountered Mahjarrat before. They're not all evil like Lucien is,” Jahaan vouched, humbly.

“And how many Mahjarrat have you met, other than the murderous Lucien?” Akrisae countered.

Rubbing the back of his head awkwardly, Jahaan mumbled, “One…”

Hands on his hips, Akrisae stated, “I rest my case.”

Having been rather quiet up until now, Thaerisk took the opportunity to pipe up, “Personally, I think it might add a bit of balance to our alliance. There's a little too much piety around here for my liking.”

“Everything I've heard of the Mahjarrat claims that they are of the darkest evil! I will not be tainted by association!” Akrisae stubbornly maintained, as if he didn’t even register Thaerisk’s remarks.

Ali seemed a little bit put out by this. “They’re not all as you speak,” he defended, calmly. “I’ve met honourable Mahjarrat in my travels. I’m confident we could find allies among them.”

“Please,” Idria rolled her eyes, scowling, “They’re all one in the same. War-mongering, power-hungry, dangerous beings that stole the Staff of Armadyl. We’d be fools to try and work with them.”

With an exasperated sigh, Jahaan mentioned, “It seems we are at an impasse. What do you think, Sir Tiffy?”

All eyes fell on the old knight, sipping from his little tea cup. After a pronounced yet delicate sip, Tiffy rested the tea cup down and trained his eyes across the room. Everyone waited on baited breath; this dramatic pause of his wasn’t accomplishing much of anything, but no-one dared bring it up.

Eventually, Tiffy asserted, “I trust all of your sound judgements, hence I gathered you all here at this crucial moment, what? He may be a young whippersnapper, but I trust Jahaan - he’s of good character, I can sense it, hmph - and if Ali here is a friend of his too, we should consider this plan. We need all the allies we can muster if we’re taking the fight to ol’ Lucien. After all, us humans tried to stand up to Lucien alone once before, and it… well, hmph.”

The heavy silence that followed said everything that it needed to.

While Idria and Akrisae bit their tongues, Thaerisk, Jahaan and Ali let relief bubble into their features, the latter saying, “I’m glad to have support from you all on this. As for where the Ritual will take place, ancient texts speak of a passage to the site from a place called Ghorrock Fortress. I can teleport myself there, and you can latch onto my coordinates to join me. Firstly, Jahaan, I think you should seek out our mutual Mahjarrat friend Azzanadra. He's the one most likely to be our ally in all of this.”

“Good call,” Jahaan agreed. “Where do you reckon he’ll be?”

“The Temple at Senntisten is where I would start. Would you like me to teleport you nearby?”

Considering he didn’t fancy traversing all the way to Varrock on foot, despite it only being one large city to the east, Jahaan took him up on his offer, saying just before he teleported away, “I won’t be long. We’ll head up to the Ritual Site en masse.”

 

Once he materialised outside the digsite and collected himself from the headrush of teleporting, Jahaan made from the trapdoor-turned-entrance to the temple. The temple itself was still under construction, though an impressive amount of work has been done in a very short amount of time. Azzanadra must have had great carpenters on his side.

The temple was once part of the capital of the ancient Zarosian Empire, Senntisten. Ever since his release from captivity inside the Jaldraocht Pyramid, Azzanadra had worked tirelessly to restore the temple to its former glory, a shine to his banished deity - Zaros. If the large tiled symbol on the floor and the purple decor wasn’t a giveaway, a Zarosian altar stood in pride of place at the western edge of the room. There, Jahaan saw a crimson robed figure with a headdress (that resembled bunny ears, but gods help you if you pointed that out) kneeling in front of it.

Despite being capable of altering their appearance, shapeshifting effortlessly, the Mahjarrat possess a natural form. It is somewhat similar to that of humans, but larger, and about one and a half times as tall. Their skin is tougher, containing markings and stripes, and a gemstone is embedded into their foreheads.

Creeping in quietly, Jahaan tiptoed into the centre of the room and waited patiently, albeit somewhat awkwardly, for Azzanadra to finally raise his head. “Welcome, Jahaan.”

Scrunching up his brow, Jahaan asked, “How did you know it was me? Some extra mystical Mahjarrat power, is it?”

Chuckling, Azzanadra replied, “No. I saw you in my peripheral vision. You aren't the stealthiest of fellows.”

Making his way to his feet, Azzanadra strode up to Jahaan with a warm smile on his skeletal face, crinkling the stripes that protruded from around his nose. “It’s good to see you again, Jahaan. Ever since you freed me from that prison inside the pyramid, I hoped our paths would cross again. Tell me, how is Ozan?”

Looking upwards to the tall ceiling, Jahaan thought for a moment before carefully answering, “He’s as energetic as ever.”

“Ha! The young man has a lot of potential, if he can keep his head attached to his shoulders long enough to reach it.”

“That remains to be seen,” Jahaan winked, chuckling to himself. Despite having only met the man once, Jahaan had warmed to Azzanadra. There was an aura surrounding him, an honourable atmosphere that offered trust and loyalty, asking only for the same respect and kindness in return. The Mahjarrat was fiercely religious, almost to a terrifying degree, but having never met a Zarosian before, Jahaan welcomed the opportunity to discuss the philosophy. 

When Jahaan’s smile faltered somewhat, Azzanadra picked up on it in an blink of an eye, saying, “But you have not come here to reminisce, have you, Jahaan?”

Shaking his head subtly, Jahaan turned his tone more serious as he replied, “Not this time. I take it you’ll be heading to the upcoming Mahjarrat Ritual?”

“Indeed I am. How did you come to know the Ritual is upon us?”

“Our mutual friend, Ali, came to me,” Jahaan explained, “There’s been a worrisome development. Lucien, another Mahjarrat - you know of him?”

“I’m unfortunate to say that, yes, I’ve had the  _ pleasure  _ of his acquaintance,” Azzanadra groaned, his tone darkening as he feared the worst. “What’s the fool gone and done now?”

“Oh, not much,” Jahaan drawled, his shoulders sagging. “Just stolen a couple of Elder artifacts and, in doing so, pissed off a species of intelligent dragon that have the power to wipe out Gielinor. They seem to be taking their rage out on cities; Port Sarim is a lot more charred than when you last would have visited.”

Azzanadra’s eyes grew wide, and he had to steady himself slightly. “Dear Zaros… I knew Lucien had the Staff of Armadyl, but ANOTHER Elder artifact? Which one, pray tell?”

“The Stone of Jas.”

The Mahjarrat really looked like he needed to sit down - Jahaan all but refrained from reaching out to balance him. Rubbing his forehead, Azzanadra grumbled, “This complicates things greatly. He will prove a severely prominent player in the upcoming Ritual. That Zamorakian lunatic cannot be trusted with such immense power. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Jahaan.”

“Actually, there’s something else,” Jahaan continued, “I’ve got a few… friends may be pushing it, but allies, all who want to see Lucien dead, and the sooner the better. Ali proposed we form an alliance with you and some other Mahjarrat so we can all jump Lucien when he emerges for the Ritual. We were hoping you could use your influence to help gather allies among the Mahjarrat.”

Azzanadra smiled, weakly. “And Ali once more proves his wisdom. Yes, an alliance would be of mutual benefit. I’ll try and convince those that I can, but even among the remaining Zarosian Mahjarrat, there is no love lost between us.”

Holding out his comparably smaller hand for the Mahjarrat to shake, Jahaan said, “Thanks, Azzanadra. I knew I could count on you.”

“And I you, Jahaan,” Azzanadra replied, shaking the outstretched hand a bit too firmly for Jahaan’s liking, but he didn’t let it show.

“Oh, can you do me a favour before I go?” Jahaan wondered with an embarrassed wince.

“Anything, my friend,” Azzanadra asserted, assuringly.

“Would you mind teleporting me back to Falador? I don’t have the runes on me…” he left out the part about how, even if he did have the runes, last time he tried a simple teleportation spell, he ended up in a well.

As if he could read the truth behind his eyes, Azzanadra smiled warmly. “It’s the least I can do. I’ll see you at the Ritual, Jahaan.”

With that, Jahaan was whisked away into the realms of nothingness, materialising a few feet from the statue in Falador’s main market.

It was the middle of the night now. When Jahaan made it back to the White Knights’ Castle, Sir Tiffy offered Jahaan and Ali residence in one of the spare quarters, to which they graciously accepted. Ali explained the Ritual would occur within the day or two, and he would know when they should arrive there. He didn’t exactly explain how he knew, but when Jahaan last saw his little hut in the small desert town of Nardah, it might as well be made entirely out of history books. The man knew his stuff.

Within the next two days, the Ritual would commence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


	6. Return of Lucien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 02: RITUAL OF THE MAHJARRAT  
> Chapter 2 - Return of Lucien
> 
> With the Mahjarrat Ritual upon them, Jahaan, Sir Tiffy and the others venture into the frozen North in an attempt to curtail Lucien’s latest power grab and reclaim the Staff of Armadyl. But a bloodchilling battle of the Mahjarrat might be the least of their worries...

Enakhra was annoyed. She’d been waiting beside the Ritual Marker now for hours, shivering in the fiercely cold terrain. Mahjarrat were not made for the winter; her tribe's home world of Freneskae didn’t exactly have anything other than ‘bloody hot’ on the temperature scale. Hence, she much preferred her home in the desert. The only saving grace was that, while waiting, she’d spent the most part of it undisturbed. Akthanakos turned up about an hour ago, not even giving her a small wave in greeting before standing on the opposite end of the plateau. Neither Mahjarrat enjoyed small talk. That, and it was no small secret that the two despised each other. Akthanakos had spent much of his time on Gielinor with the camels in the desert, teaching them to fight and conversing with them through the aptly named ‘camlet’, the amulet of camel-speak. This association went so far that he began being depicted as the ‘camel-headed god’, even by the humans of the desert. Enakhra, on the other hand, had spent thousands of years dwelling inside the temple she had built to honour Zamorak. Her god visited the temple once, and did not receive the gesture as well as Enakhra had hoped. She still found the time to capture and imprison her bitter rival, Akthanakos, inside, until he was eventually freed by a budding explorer.

Such acts did not calm the already turbulent waters between the two...

_ When’s this thing going to start? _ Enakhra grumbled internally, cursing herself for her promptness.

Boredom fueled her intense impatience, as there was only so many times you could count the tiles beside the marker or try and catch snowflakes on your tongue. She stopped the latter as soon as Akthanakos had arrived.

Then, as if karma was punishing her for her restlessness, the last person she wanted to talk to teleported in and made a b-line towards her, attempting and failing at a suave swagger.

“Hey Enakhra.”

“Zemouregal,” she rolled her eyes. “I don’t feel like talking right now. There’s plenty of plateau to go around. Go stand with Akky.”

Relaxing into a casual stance, Zemouregal replied, “I think I like it right here.”

Rubbing her cold hands together, she shot him a look of intense irritation. “As if the Ritual wasn't tedious and miserable enough…”

“You know, you really need to get over yourself, Enakhra,” he grumbled, frustration getting the better of him. “You think you’re so much better than everyone, just because you're the last female Mahjarrat. Arrogance doesn't suit you.”

“This coming from the man who wrote ‘This is me. I am amazing’ next to his own name when making notes on the Mahjarrat.”

At this, Zemouregal froze. “How did… y-you read my notes?”

The smile she flashed was wicked.  _ Finally,  _ she thought, _ I've found a way to shut that mouth of his. _

After a long enough silence to make his embarrassment crystal clear, Zemouregal cleared his throat and tried to pick up some of the dignity he'd dropped on the plateau. He narrowed his eyes and tightly warned, “You know, it’s better to make allies than enemies at a time like this.”

“Right,” she scoffed. “Because someone might suggest, ‘I have an idea - shall we kill the last surviving female of our race and doom us all into extinction?’, to which the reply will be, ‘what a splendid idea!’. Yes, Zemouregal. That’s astute.”

“Oh yes, you’re really continuing our survival, pining after Zamorak like that.”

“Shut up,” Enakhra hissed. “When will you take the hint, Zemouregal? I’m. Not. Interested!”

Zemouregal threw his hands in the air. “It’s literally for the survival of our species! Our child would be the future of our race!”

“If the future of our race has your blood, evolution has already failed us.”

 

Jahaan woke up at dawn, having gained only a handful of hours of sleep. With all that had transpired the previous day, relaxation wasn’t exactly in the cards for him. After tossing and turning for about an hour, he finally lulled himself to sleep by counting sheep. A classic, but when you get up to three hundred and two, your brain shuts down out of boredom.

Pulling himself out of bed, he rubbed the sand from around his eyes. The bunk next to him, Ali’s, was already empty, and the door to their chamber was open.

Stumbling to his feet, Jahaan dragged himself out the door, thinking some brisk morning air would wake him up enough to begin the day. When he reached the balcony, Ali was already outside, pondering up at the fading stars that were being eased from the sky by dawn’s early light.

Ali didn’t turn around. He didn’t have to. Instead, he simply stated, “The planets have aligned. The Ritual begins now.”

 

Once everyone awoke that morning, preparations were immediately made for the Ritual to come. This included gearing up with armour, weapons and other useful items. Now, while he did have a rather nice runite dagger, Jahaan didn’t fancy his chances against Lucien with a fishing net and a tinderbox. Bringing this up to Sir Tiffy, the old knight assured he’d sort him out in a jiffy.

The longer he awaited Sir Tiffy’s return, the more his excitement grew. The anticipation of getting to wear some decent armour was like a boyhood dream come true. After all, the best he’d ever worn was mithril, way back in the day. It was incredibly decent, for sure, but Temple Knight armour - heck, even White Knight armour - was superior to that.

His expectations were soaring.

However, when Sir Tiffy returned with three squires in tow, two heaving large, dusty crates and a third hefting a long, rickety box, his expectations were cut down a little bit.

“‘Fraid there was a little snafew, old sport. Something about protocol, initiations, yada-yada… long story short, the armoury’s off limits to you, my lad.”

Doing his best to hide his disappointment, Jahaan watched with quiet desperation as Sir Tiffy blew onto the old crates, an innocuous act that ended up forming a dust cloud so big he started choking on it.

“These here belong to a couple of the knights,” Sir Tiffy continued, wiping his monocle clear. “I say, it’s been here almost as long as I have. They forgot they even had it! What?”

With apprehension far overwhelming his former anticipation, Jahaan pried the lid off the first crate. However, when he laid eyes on the contents, he gulped, mouth suddenly feeling very dry.

Then, he started to grin.

“I think this’ll do just fine.”

 

Jahaan would leave the White Knights Castle wearing his new armour, a full set of runite. It fit like a glove, moulded perfectly to his form. While he thought that mithril was good, compared to wearing runite, mithril was like wearing granite. The mobility it provided was so significant, he felt like he could traverse the Barbarian Agility Course in this thing. Plus, it was so much lighter in weight, and a lot quieter too - no more bumbling about with the stealth and grace of a pigeon. Despite being second hand, there was barely a scratch on it, and no dents in sight. Jahaan wondered if it had ever been worn.

The weapons he had been provided with… ehh…

_ Glass half full, glass half full,  _ Jahaan reminded himself, awkwardly clutching his steel kiteshield and scimitar.

Full runite armour, full steel weapons.

One of these things is not like the other.

 

Soon enough, everyone was ready to go to the Ritual.

Idria and Sir Tiffy tried, in vain, to convince Akrisae to stay behind and not attend the Ritual - the man was a priest who hadn’t swung a sword in over twenty years - but he couldn’t be talked out of going, preaching something about wanting to keep a ‘close eye’ on the Mahjarrat. It was like arguing with a brick wall.

Sir Tiffy gathered a group of his strongest Temple Knights to accompany him, while Idria took two other Guardians of Armadyl alongside her. They didn’t have too many to spare, to be honest. Thaerisk rounded up some druids that had combat experience to attend as well.

Fortunately, all the druids were well-versed in teleportation magic and, between them, they managed to teleport the entire entourage in one go.

 

In the iciest depths of the Wilderness was the Mahjarrat Ritual Site. Technically it was located within Troll Country, between the Trollweiss Mountains, but no trolls had traversed the Ritual Site in centuries. The closest points of ‘civilisation’ were Zemouregal's Fortress to the west, and the abandoned Zarosian fortress of Ghorrock to the north. Aside from the Marker and a few crumbled pillars, the plateau was vast and empty, blanketed by snow.

Fortunately, Ali had told them all to dress up warm enough, but nevertheless, neither knight nor druid was prepared for just how cold the site was.

“I say!” Sir Tiffy hunched his shoulders. “A bit nippy, isn’t it, ol’ chap?”

Ali, too, was shivering, despite having detoured back to his home in Nardah for some fur-lined clothes. “This is why I like the desert. Before we continue, I wanted to reiterate how thankful I am to have the support of your forces against Lucien. I fear we will need them before long. These things never go down peacefully. The other Mahjarrat will have their own forces, too. One just hopes they train them on Lucien and not us.”

“Think nothing of it, ol’ chap, “Sir Tiffy slapped Ali on the back. “We want him gone just as much as you.”

Smiling warmly, Ali said, “Come now, the Ritual Marker itself is just up this ridge…”

But before they could walk much further, Ali stopped abruptly, sensing a disturbance. 

Then, in a whirl of blue and purple, a bulky looking Mahjarrat warrior in battle-hardened steel and black armour teleported into the fray. A skull emblem was emblazoned crookedly upon his chest, matching the bare skeleton of his skinless head. His sword was about as tall as Jahaan, and looked like it weighed as much, though he carried the razor-sharp blade with ease, what with his frame being as bulky and as statuesque as it was.

If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then this particular Mahjarrat had flattered a lot of large boulders in his time. 

Accompanying him were human troops - looking like dwarves in comparison, but they were most certainly human - in similar armour, carrying steel longswords. When looking between the Mahjarrat’s blade and the ones the human’s carried, they might as well have been wielding butter knives.

The Mahjarrat drove his sword into the snow and rested on the hilt. “So, all the vermin together in a pack, ready to be slaughtered like lambs!”

Ali the Wise rolled his eyes. “You never were our brightest star, Khazard. 'Vermin slaughtered like lambs'? What mess of idioms is that?”

Despite the insult, General Khazard’s fearsome demeanour relaxed into a somewhat casual one. He squinted his eyes, leaning forward slightly. “Wahisietel, is that you?”

“What are you talking about?” Sir Tiffy demanded. “Who's Wahisietel?”

Khazard pointed to Ali, a baffled smirk getting the better of him. “He is!”

With a wave of his hand, Khazard cast a spell that engulfed Ali the Wise in stars and glowing white light. In mere moments, it faded away, leaving a olive robed Mahjarrat in its place, red lines crossing over his slightly spiked skull, with a gem in the middle of his forehead.

Akrisae jumped back, aghast. “What in Saradomin's name is this? What fowl abomination have you brought upon us, Jahaan?!”

Instead of answering, Jahaan regarded Ali with solemn, heavy eyes, mumbling, “...Ali?...”

Frowning, Ali turned to Jahaan and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I apologise for the deception, my friend. ‘Ali’ was a necessary disguise in human lands. My real name is Wahisietel.”

The Mahjarrat turned to the apprehensive knights and warriors - alongside a fearful priest - behind him and addressed, “You need not fear me. I am still on your side. Do not waver now, save your holy crusades for later. We have Khazard and his lackeys here to worry about first.”

“And worried you should be!” Khazard scowled, “I think you'll make the perfect sacrifice for the Ritual, Wahisietel, just as soon as we've dealt with these maggots!”

Akrisae edged closer to Sir Tiffy and whispered, “Should we get some more back-up?”

“No need…”

This response did not come from Sir Tiffy. Rather, it came from Azzanadra, who materialised just in front of them. Bringing forth a ball of pulsing energy to his palms, he stared down Khazard and declared, “This child is not worth the effort. We can deal with him ourselves.”

“Knights, ADVANCE!” Sir Tiffy bellowed, causing his Temple Knights to surge into combat. They clashed with Khazard’s mortal troop, black and white melting together as steel battled with armour and, occasionally, flesh.

 

From their vantage point beside the Marker, Enakhra and Zemouregal just sat back and enjoyed the show, the latter wishing he had bought drinks and refreshments. Akthanakos watched on with trepidation, not daring to get involved.

They watched as Azzanadra sent a rush of smoke to engulf Khazard, seeing him stumble backwards ever so slightly, only to return with a fierce blood spell of his own that Azzanadra barely had time to deflect.

The younger Mahjarrat had discarded his sword very quickly, having enough wits about him to know to fight fire with fire, and that trying to cross the distance of the plateau to charge his opponents with his blade would leave him vulnerable. Alongside his impressive sword skills, Khazard was an incredibly apt sorcerer, casting intrinsic and deadly blood and smoke spells with ease. 

Unfortunately for him, Wahisteil and Azzanadra were a lot more proficient, especially the latter, and thus the younger Mahjarrat realised soon on he had bitten off more than he could chew. Nevertheless, he kept fighting on, knowing that all it took was one well-placed, highly impactful strike on his part to extinguish the flame of one of his Mahjarrat brethren, and it would all be over. The Ritual would be complete, everyone else would be rejuvenated, and he wouldn’t have to see any of the miserable fools for another five hundred years.

That last thought alone made fighting an uphill battle much easier.

 

Between them, Jahaan, the Guardians of Armadyl and the Temple Knights managed to keep Khazard’s elite troops at bay, allowing Wahisietel and Azzanadra to take on Khazard personally. The soldier’s Khazard had bought were incredibly well-versed in melee combat, holding their own against the numbers disadvantage quite formidably. A handful of Temple Knights even fell victim to their blades, and one of the Guardians of Armadyl severely wounded her leg due to a carefully targeted lunge of a dagger, effectively sidelining her for the rest of the ensuing battle. While a couple of druids tended to her, the other two continued their assault on the Khazard troops from a distance, sending precise and effective spells at their opponents.

 

With a malicious cackle from Khazard, a targeted burst of lightning struck the ground beside him and, from the crack in the earth, a skeletal, ghostly apparition pulled itself from the ground. When it reached the surface, it was apparent that this was Khazard’s deceased hellhound - and Postie Pete’s worst nightmare - Bouncer, raised from its eternal slumber to aid him in combat once more. Bearing his teeth with a constant growl, his mouth was full of daggers.

The undead hellhound launched itself at Jahaan, gnashing teeth biting and snapping at the young man who fell to his back in shock. His shield fell to the side, but luckily, Jahaan got his scimitar up to protect his head, pushing back Bouncer with all his strength as the dog tried to chew his sword in two. Jahaan shrunk back into the snow, wincing away from the growling and barking monster pinning him to the ground. Then, suddenly, Bouncer fell limp on top of him with a muffled whine before disappearing in a puff of smoke altogether. Looking up, Jahaan saw Wahisietel send him a brief nod of reassurance before resuming his attack on Khazard. Scrambling to his feet, Jahaan readjusted his grip on his sword and went to work on some of the remaining Khazard troops.

 

Before long, all of Khazard’s elite troops were all defeated, scattered and wounded in crimson patches around the plateau. Azzanadra’s latest blast had sent Khazard to the ground, next to the unconscious body of one of his soldiers. After looking around and seeing his army in pieces, realisation sunk in.

General Khazard pulled himself to his feet, clutching his wounded shoulder. “Ha! You think I'll end up being the one sacrificed today? Not likely!”

In a flash, he teleported away, the sound of maniacal laughter being the only remnant he left behind.

Jahaan’s shoulders sagged. “After all that, he just runs off?”

Wahisietel straightened his cuffs. “Fear not, Jahaan. Khazard may be a cowardly child, but even he is not stupid enough to leave the area at such an important time. He’ll return.”

Leaving the wounded where they were to be tended to by druids, the remaining forces of Sir Tiffy, flanked by the Mahjarrat, made their way up towards the Ritual Marker. Azzanadra scowled at Zemouregal, the first one to catch his eye, but did exchange a friendly nod of greeting to Akthanakos.

“And here I was hoping Khazard could be sacrificed before I had to bother conversing with you two,” Azzanadra cast heavy eyes at the two Zamorakian Mahjarrat.

“It’s not going to be Khazard,” Zemouregal stated, his challenging glare not flinching against the weight of Azzanadra’s. “I’m not having a Zamorakian sacrificed today.”

Enakhra joined him, “As much as I hate to agree with this tool, I concur.”

Akthanakos protested, “No! It will be Lucien or Khazard. Oh how I’d love it to be you, Enakhra. If you weren’t the last of your gender, you’d have been thrown to the Marker ages ago.”

“Well, it’s not going to be me. Besides, I would toss you to the Marker without even breaking a sweat.”

“Your mind is warped by your arrogance, Enhakra,” Akthanakos growled. “My power supersedes yours with ease, and I’ll take on any Zamorakian that challenges me.”

“Please! You were too scared to join in on the fun.”

“I didn’t see you throwing any punches out there!”

Stomping away from the pack, Wahisietel demanded into the skies, “This is ridiculous. Come out and fight, Khazard! Prove yourself, coward, or face oblivion!”

_ “Khazard's not here... Will I do, Wahisietel?” _ the voice floated alongside the snowflakes, sinister and malicious.

Wahisietel’s eyes narrowed. “Lucien!”

_ “Yes, it is I…” _

In a haze of black and smoke, Lucien teleported directly in front of the Ritual Marker. From years of decay his skin had withered away to nothingness, leaving only the frail, haunting shell of his skeletal frame. The crimson robes he draped himself in did little to shield the emptiness of his body. Yet despite his hollow exterior, he somehow managed to give an imposing, almost commanding presence. Perhaps it was the way his robes flowed that gave the illusion of strength and muscle, or the pulled back lips that showed the ridges of his jaw, or the sunken black sockets of his eyes being filled with an icy green glow. There was a stench of death and overwhelming magic that surrounded him, too.

Zemouregal strode to stand closer to the arriving Mahjarrat. “Greetings, cousin. You came at the perfect time. I was growing tired of these Zarosians.”

Instinctively, Idria’s fists clenched into tight balls, her vision turning red as she spat, “Lucien, you murderer!”

Lucien cackled, regarding the assembled entourage with disgust. “And what's this? You've bought some feeble excuse for backup with you too. Who do we have… a faltering priest, an old man, and-”

When his eyes laid on Jahaan, they lit up with malice. “And so we meet again, adventurer.”

“And this time will be the last time, Lucien,” Jahaan didn’t care how cliched he sounded. “You'll answer for the deaths you've caused.”

“How dare you address a god in such an insolent tone!” Lucien exclaimed, venom on his tongue.

Wahisietel retorted, “You're no god, Lucien. You’re just a petty thief.”

“Well said!” Sir Tiffy cheered. “Where’s the Stone, sneak?”

“Like I'd tell you. The Stone is mine and mine alone. Allow me to demonstrate some of the power these new artefacts have given me!”

With a hand in the air, Lucien summonend the Staff of Armadyl into his grasp with a malevolent sneer. Holding the Staff aloft, Lucien caused a grey skull of smoke and ash to emanate from the peak. It washed over him, transforming into pulsing rings of black and purple energy. The ground began to shake, cracking the ice. From these cracks, the ground morphed into two dozen ice-based monsters, covered in spikes and flashing glowing red eyes.

Wahisietel shrunk back a few steps. “Oh no… this isn’t good at all…”

Sir Tiffy, on the other hand, kept a steady expression of resolve. “We'll do our bit if you can hold off Lucien again, old chap!”

Wahisietel nodded. “I'll do what I can, but I fear this will require more power than I own.”

_ “Then perhaps it is time for us to fight alongside each other once more, brother...” _ a voice echoed through the crisp breeze.

Fading out of thin air came a black and purple robed being; his skinless appearance and tall stature suggested he, too, was a Mahjarrat. He was hunched over, wringing his skeletal hands together constantly, like some sort of nervous tick.

Jahaan jumped backwards as the man appeared next to him. “Gah! Where did he come from?”

Wahisietel hurried beside the newcomer, a relieved smile breaking into his face. “Praise Zaros! Sliske! Always in the right place at the right time.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Ah, Sliske. I wondered when you might slink in... but you should have stayed hidden in your shadows this time. What can you alone hope to do against the power of Lucien?”

Sliske’s lipless mouth cracked into a grin, his lifeless eyes challenging Lucien. “Who said anything about being alone?”

Teleporting backwards, Sliske held out his arms, and they began to shake and quiver as energy pulsed through them. One by one, six fully armoured warriors were summoned in front of him. Their green armour was cracked and dented, rusted slightly from age, but their weapons, my...  they were unparalleled, some of the finest craftsmanship in the five ages. One held a large crossbow with a quiver full of knife-like bolts at his hip. Another, a fearsome battleaxe that looked like it weighed as much as he did. One held a ball and chain, another a curved spear, and another a twin set of warhammers. The last, hooded and cloaked, held a battlestaff. Though they all wore some sort of face protection, one thing could be realised if looking closely enough…

...they didn’t have pupiled eyes.

Sneering, Zemouregal drawled, “Still the puppetmaster as always, Sliske. Well, two can play at that game…”

In a wisp of darkness and shadows, Zemouregal summoned his loyal gargoyle commander, Sharathteerk, to his side, alongside half a dozen armoured zombies. The poor being hadn’t quite got around to dying yet, it seemed.

“I come at your call, my lord,” Sharathteerk bowed before his master, his rocky joints creaking with the action.

Gritting his teeth, Lucien pointed towards Sliske and the surrounding group, barking, “DESTROY THEM ALL!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


	7. Awoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 02: RITUAL OF THE MAHJARRAT  
> Chapter 3 - Awoken
> 
> With the Mahjarrat Ritual upon them, Jahaan, Sir Tiffy and the others venture into the frozen North in an attempt to curtail Lucien’s latest power grab and reclaim the Staff of Armadyl. But a bloodchilling battle of the Mahjarrat might be the least of their worries...

Soon after Lucien’s call, Khazard returned to the fray once more, locking swords with Idria and the remaining Guardian of Armadyl. Seeing him reappear, Sir Tiffy sent his Temple Knights to act as backup for Idria. With enough bodies on him, Khazard was successfully distracted enough for Wahisietel and Azzanadra to focus on Zemouregal and Lucien respectively.

Jahaan’s sword cut through the tainted flesh of the zombies like a knife through butter - he barely broke a sweat as he toppled the slow and groaning creatures with almost laughable ease. Even their regenerative abilities couldn’t keep up with him, and he soon realised that, as long as he destroyed the head, they wouldn’t get back up again. Thus, he adopted the strategy of driving the end of his fearsome blade through the soft skull of a downed opponent, just for good measure.

Seizing the opportunity, Enakhra and Akthanakos wasted no time to start dueling, the former’s signature blood magic battling with the latter’s ice spells. The two danced throughout the plateau, ignoring all the conflicts surrounding them, no matter how closely they accidentally strayed towards the line of fire.

_ Finally, _ they both thought,  _ an opportunity to dispatch this half-wit… _

The fact that Enakhra was the last female Mahjarrat didn’t stop Akthanakos for giving his all - in his eyes, Enakhra had forfeited the right to live when she attacked him first.

Zemouregal went to assist Enakhra - not that she needed it - but was pulled back by Wahisietel channeling a blitz of smoke magic that almost knocked him off his feet. Growling, he countered with a vicious shadow spell, allowing the ancient element to warp around Wahisietel, disorienting him long enough for Zemouregal to follow-up with a burst of blood magic.

Instead of wounding Wahisietel, Zemouregal only succeeded in annoying him, and thus the retaliation was fierce and relentless.

Zemouregal looked with pleading eyes over at Lucien, struggling under the constant barrage of Wahisietel’s ice spells. “Lucien, back me up here!”

Lucien flashed a glance in his direction, but said nothing, continuing instead to counter Azzanadra’s latest surge of smoke magic with a blood spell of his own. The violent clashing of ancient magicks caused the skies to drip with venom and fire, twisting the snow covered earth into grotesque forms as it broke under the impact of stray blasts.

 

Behind them all, Sliske directed his wights like actors on the stage. There was something eerily familiar about the undead men he commanded, something that gnawed away at the edges of Jahaan’s mind, over and over, but never quite breaking through. It was if he’d seen them before, or at least heard enough stories of them that the picture had been painted so vividly in his mind, he might as well have encountered them himself.

_ Stories… that’s it! _

Jahaan realised where he knew the warriors from. They were myths, legends, fables. They were stories told to children of brave heroes of old, stories told around campfires to inspire young and promising warriors, stories told throughout the ages.

They were brothers.

The Barrows Brothers, to be precise. Saradominist crusaders who fought as commanders of formidable armies during the God Wars, particularly during the campaign to conquer southern Forinthry. There, they ventured into Morytania.

It was also there they met their demise.

Tales of their deaths vary depending on who you ask, the truth being lost to time. One constant remains, however, and it is a reason that - alongside being heroic figureheads - the tales of the Barrows Brothers are also cautionary ones.

This constant is ‘the stranger’.

The stranger that watched the campaign from the first footfall, always from afar, delving into the shadows at the edges of the battlefield.

The stranger that knew power and granted it to the brothers, alongside their weapons and signature armour.

The stranger whose insidious ways corrupted the Brothers, targeting their greed and desire for power that, ultimately, brought upon their downfall.

Jahaan turned his attention to the strange Mahjarrat that commanded the Brothers now, and for a brief, fleeting moment, their eyes met. His lidless eyes were hidden deep within the dark recesses of his cowl, but Jahaan could see the light within them, the spark that drew the brothers towards him like a siren song.

 

As the zombies were dealt with, Jahaan focused his attention on the ice titans the Barrows Brothers were duelling with. Leaping into the fray, Jahaan slashed his sword right through the heart of one of the titans, causing the titan to explode from the inside out and scatter ice pieces into the snow, melting very soon after impact. He parrayed with another for a few moments, eventually getting the better of the beast and sending it crashing to the ground.

He turned to find a new opponent when, in a flash, a barrelling punch from one of the titans smashed into Jahaan’s chest, bringing back painful memories - literally painful - of his time battling trolls in Burthorpe. It hadn’t even been a week, but it felt like eons. The agony, however, was as familiar as ever. Clutching his winded stomach, Jahaan fought for the air that had been knocked out of him. The same titan raised its icy fist, intent on finishing the job, but a swing from the giant battleaxe of one of the Barrows Brothers shattered the titan’s fist clean off. Jahaan went to go thank the Brother, then remembered the futility in such an action, and instead turned back to Sliske and gave him a gracious smile.

 

During his battle with Wahisietel, even Zemouregal's ego couldn’t swing the tide in his favour - he was being overpowered, and quite significantly.

Zemouregal fell to one knee as a chunk of bone was scorched straight from his thigh, shattering into fragments that blended with the white ground beneath. Gritting his teeth, he fought through the pain enough to glare heated eyes at Lucien and furiously exclaim, “You would let  _ me _ be the one to be sacrificed, cousin?!”

Lucien didn’t even regard him with the courtesy of a glance this time. No, instead, Zemouregal could have sworn he saw the Mahjarrat smile.

Dragging himself to his feet, he growled, “Then you are not worthy of deciding. Azzanadra was right all along - all on Lucien!”

Zemouregal swung around, targeting an impactful whirl of shadow magic at Lucien, who caught the brunt of it. His being absorbed the blow, only injuring him very slightly, not enough to stop him from blasting Zemouregal back with a spell of his own.

At the combined efforts of Wahisietel, Azzanadra and Zemouregal, Lucien was starting to show some signs of weakening, the internal power within him degrading the longer he kept away from an active source.

Realising this, and seeing how preoccupied the other Mahjarrat had made Lucien, Jahaan saw an opening. Darting behind the Ritual Marker, he eyed up at Lucien’s skeletal dome. Sheathing his scimitar and dropping his cumbersome kiteshield, he stealthily withdraw his dagger from its holder, testing the heavy grip in his gloved hand. His red-hot eyes burned a hole through the back of Lucien’s head, scorching a target, a cross to aim for.

_ Lucien may be a Mahjarrat, he may have god-like powers… but no-one can survive a knife through the skull. _

That’s what he kept telling himself as he steadied his grip, replaying the face of everyone Lucien had slain in the chasm that day. The faces of the statues that glared down at him in Falador Park.

Cyrisus, the former adventurer that Jahaan nursed back to health after a battle wound.

Hazelmere, the gnome mage who foresaw his own death, but used his one chance to escape alive to, instead, sacrifice himself to save Jahaan.

Turael, the Slayer Master who first taught Jahaan about the skill of monster slaying and planned to retire soon.

Harrallak, the owner of the Warrior’s Guild and one of the most accomplished swordsman of the Fifth Age.

Mazchna, the demon who fought under Turael and, in his early life, chased away all the other demons in Morytania. Unlike most of his race, he strove to be an honourable person.

Lassyai, a Guardian of Armadyl that had spent her entire life in service to the protection of the Staff, who then died whilst valiantly fighting to reclaim it.

All of these people gave up their life for Jahaan, all to keep Lucien at bay. Now, finally, Jahaan could avenge them.

Without thinking twice, he surged forward towards the preoccupied Mahjarrat. Leaping upwards, he held his dagger high in the air, ready to bolt down the second he was in the perfect position. At the sudden movement, Azzanadra, Wahisteil and Zemouregal inadvertently betrayed Jahaan’s attack by flitting their eyes in his direction, their magic faltering. Seeing this, Lucien swung around, glaring upwards at the seething Jahaan who was preparing to put a blade through his skull. Out of more luck than reflex, Lucien swayed his head just in time to avoid the killing blow, but didn’t get out of range entirely. Instead of his head, Jahaan buried the blade deep into Lucien’s shoulder.

Roaring in agony, Lucien stumbled backwards into the Marker, clutching the crimson wound. Furiously, he plucked the dagger from his shoulder with a sickening squelch, and tossed it to the ground. Jahaan, almost paralysed in shock, didn’t have it in him to react as Lucien stormed his way, snatched him by the throat and launched him across the battlefield. He landed near to Sir Tiffy in an undignified, snowy heap.

“ENOUGH!” Lucien bellowed, protruding an immense wave of energy that rocked the ground beneath his feet, causing everyone in a radius to lose their balance and fall victim to gravity, landing on the snow beneath them. “I’m bored of your pathetic attempts to stop me. Besides, there are more pressing matters: the Ritual is upon us, and I must choose the sacrifice.”

Picking herself up off the ground, Enakhra boldly contended, “No, Lucien. You may well be the most powerful, but you alone do not decide who faces oblivion.”

“Fool! That's exactly what it means! My power gives me the right to do as I please. No one can stop me! Dare you toil like these cretins have?”

Suddenly, Enakhra's confident demeanour crumbled. She stammered in reply, “N-No… of course not! I… I wasn't questioning your power… I was merely suggesting we think this through. Who dies here affects us all.”

Lucien sniffed a scornful laugh. “Oh, and whom might you suggest?”

“I want it to be Akthanakos.”

“Then it's a shame no one listens to you,” Akthanakos retorted, flashing his teeth.

Zemouregal implored, “Lucien, ignore this pathetic chattering. It doesn’t matter who you pick, as long as it’s one of the Zarosian scum.”

He gestured towards Azzanadra, Sliske, Wahisietel and Akthanakos, who were standing to the east of the Ritual Marker.

“Yes, any of these fools will suffice!” General Khazard concurred, “Why not Wahisietel?”

Wahisietel roared a vicious laugh. “HA! You two are lucky to have lived this long. You’re weak, and the weak will not survive.”

Zemouregal snapped back, “That’s rich coming from you, Wahisietel. You’re almost pathetic as camel-man over here.”

“Hey!” Akthanakos whined, indignantly. Enakhra could only laugh.

“You call me pathetic?” Wahisietel began to counter, “Tell me, Zemouregal - how goes the invasion of Varrock?”

Zemagoural shot him a dirty look, grumbling, “I’ll get it one of these days…”

“And you, Khazard. Still at war with those pesky gnomes?”

Khazard looked away, almost shamefully.

“I rest my case,” Wahisietel was awfully satisfied with himself. “Besides, there is more at stake here than you realise. It MUST be Lucien!”

Azzanadra piped up, “He’s right. Lucien cannot be trusted with that sort of power. He must be the sacrifice.”

“ENOUGH GAMES!” Lucien heatedly boomed, raising his good arm to the sky. “I’m tired of your petty squabbling. I shall be the one to decide! Only I have the power of a GOD! BEHOLD!”

Materialising in front of Lucien was a large sphere of crumbling rock fragments, shaking and shifting constantly as energy pulsed between the cracks. It appeared on a decayed stone plinth, and given this, stood taller than Lucien himself. Reaching forward, Lucien placed his skeletal palm on the Stone, sneering as the power flowed through the very essence of his being.

“The Stone of Jas!” Akrisae gasped, cowering backwards in awe of the mighty Elder Artifact and the madman Mahjarrat touching it.

“NO! It is mine! The Stone of Lucien!” Lucien snapped, loud enough to cause a rift in the world. “It is aligned to me! Useful to no other while I still live! None can stand against me! I AM A GOD!”

Then, a scream that could tear a rift in the entire UNIVERSE shot through the skies, echoing off the harsh winter and reverberating endlessly into the void.

From the air descended Sithaph and Strisath, death haunting their rageful eyes.

“You are no god, False User, just another fool who believes they can manipulate the power of the Stone,” Sithaph spat, the words croaking and rattling in his throat.

Sir Tiffy hurried to Jahaan’s side, “I say! Could these be dragonkin you spoke of?”

Eyes transfixed on the dragonkin, Jahaan gulped, praying to whatever deity that would listen for the beasts’ gaze never to reach his own. “Yep, that’s them…”

Idria, on the other hand, didn’t seem all too phased by the arrival of the dragonkin. “Whatever they are, it sounds like they're here for the same reason we are. We may be on the same side…”

“Idria, wait!” Akrisae hissed, holding out a hand to stop her, but his feet felt like they were frozen to the snow.

Striding up to the dragonkin, Idria bowed lowly before addressing, “Excuse me, Guardians of the Stone?”

The two dragonkin, conversing among themselves, did not notice her approach.

“The False User does not know he called us?” Sithaph queried, his voice as monotone as ever, like every word was an inconvenience.

“No, he is oblivious,” Strisath confirmed.

“He still uses the Stone. I feel my rage growing.”

Clearing her throat, Idria spoke a little louder this time. “Pardon me, dragonkin?”

“It grows in me too,” Strisath concurred. “I feel the need to destroy the False User.”

“I am in agreement.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Idria interjected, her tone clipped with growing impatience. “But we're here to stop Lucien too. We could join forces, and-”

Strisath finally turned his reptilian head towards Idria, his eyes burning into her. Suddenly, Idria realised she had made a grave mistake. “The little creature addresses us. It angers me. It too?”

Sithaph nodded. “Yes. Those before us should know that ALL will suffer now we are unleashed!”

“NO, WAIT!”

Somehow, Akrisae had found his feet, and charged towards the dragonkin. Paralysed in fear, Idria couldn’t even fathom movement as the dragonkin reared on its hind legs and readied a fireball, roaring in fury. He threw Idria out the way with strength he didn’t even know he had, launching her into the bitterly cold snow as scorching flames engulfed his body.

The screaming, mercifully, didn’t last more than a few agonsing seconds before Akrisae was turned to nothing more than charred ash, contrasting sickeningly against the white snow beneath him.

Jahaan, Tiffy and the others watched in abject horror. Even some of the Mahjarrat were trembling at this point.

Lucien’s eyes darted wildly around the plateau, begging for an escape. It was then, however, that he realised many of the gatherers were turning to him for a response.

So, swallowing hard, he clutched the Staff of Armadyl even tighter in his grasp and remarked, “An interesting display of power, but it does not compare to my own.”

Strisath glared through him. “Beware, False User - your power is taken from the Stone, our power IS the Stone.”

Sithaph clenched his clawed hands into balled fists. “Your destruction is at hand, fool.”

Bellowing a laugh, Lucien challenged, “YOU are the fool! You DARE mock the power of Lucien?!”

Though it was incredibly hard to tell from the structure of his abnormal jaw, Jahaan could have sworn he saw a glint of a smile on Sithaph’s face. That was the most terrifying thing of all. “We dare.”

To his credit, Lucien was brave enough - or stupid enough - to charge the dragonkin head on. Instead of summoning an attack from the Staff of Armadyl, however, he tried to swing the spiked end at Strisath, who effortlessly dodged out of the way. Sithaph, on the other hand, was a little slower in his reactions and caught the rebound swing from Lucien straight into the ridge of bony wing. Staggering sideways slightly, Sithaph’s eyes flashed fire, and he sent a surge of it at Lucien, who just about dove to the ground in time.

Picking him from the ground, Strisath carried Lucien with a vice-like grip around his throat, strangling the Mahjarrat, who’s legs flailed helplessly in the air. Dropping the Staff on instinct, Lucien fought in vain to break Strisath’s hold, using what little oxygen he had left to beg for assistance.

None was offered.

No, everyone stood as far back as they could, but their eyes were still fixated on the horrors unfolding in front of them.

Balling his fists, Lucien concentrated with every ounce of mental strength he had on channeling the power coursing through him. With a mighty shout, a burst of dark energy exploded form him, knocking Strisath to the ground. However, Lucien was too foolish to capitalise, taking a moment to appreciate the awe he had inspired among his fellow Mahjarrat and other bystanders. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Sithaph flew in and tackled Lucien to the ground, biting a chunk out of the Mahjarrat’s armour, chewing it briefly and spitting it out like it was a grape seed.

Sithaph then dragged Lucien to his knees by the scruff of his collar, proceeding to toss him violently into the Ritual Marker a good twenty feet away. Lucien careened into it head first, splitting his skull open upon impact. With horror, Lucien ghosted a hand towards the crack in his head. The Mahjarrat tried to stagger to his feet, using the Ritual Marker to pull himself to his knees. When he turned around, however, Strisath was on top of him. Claws pierced into Lucien’s thighs as the dragonkin pinned him down, causing the Mahjarrat to scream in agony. He swiped and swatted desperately at Strisath, struggling to fight against the dragonkin’s weight. But before he could mount a steady retaliation, Strisath raised a dagger-like fist full of claws high into the air. Plunging them down into Lucien’s chest, they cut through his armour like it wasn’t there at all. Twisting inside of him, Strisath wrapped his claws around Lucien’s heart and ripped the organ right out of his body, silencing Lucien’s haunting screams once and for all as the life vanished from his eyes.

As soon as it did, the Ritual Marker started to shake, crying out a whirl of haunting, smoking grey skulls from its mouth. The earth beneath it trembled, cracking the tiles surrounding the Marker. The skulls flew into Lucien, lifting his lifeless body from the ground to twist and contort one more time, before the skulls abandoned his body and instead found hosts inside the gathered Mahjarrat. Purple energy pulsed inside their veins, engulfing and overpowering them. They clutched their chests, staggering and swaying as they absorbed the vasts amounts of energy shooting into them. Once they’d taken in all they could, their arms shot outwards, wide eyes fixed on the sky above them as they exhaled deeply.

The flesh had returned to their bones, the strength to their muscles, and their power had been increased tenfold.

“That’s more like it!” Zemouregal cheered, feeling like he could take on the world.

Cracking into a grin, Sliske removed the glove from his hand and examined the skin beneath it with relief. “You miss the little things, don’t you?”

Stretching out his muscles, Wahisietel contributed, “I feel reborn, alive!”

“As do I,” Azzanadra concurred, allowing the magic to dance between his fingertips.

“Indeed. We are rejuvenated, but I have no wish to stay here and share Lucien's fate,” Enakhra declared, not succeeding in hiding her terror at what she’d just witnessed. Folding her arms over her chest, she teleported back to her desert temple.

Akthanakos muttered something under his breath, more than a little petrified. He, too, teleported away.

Clearing his throat, General Khazard lowly stammered, “Um.. I too have... urm... m-matters to attend to.”

With that, he was gone, taking the remnants of his army with him.

“So, Lucien is dead. Good riddance, I say,” Zemouregal stated, managing to sound at least slightly confident in his tone, but the shaking of his hands betrayed his true emotions. He teleported back to his fortress.

“Until the next Ritual,” Azzanadra nodded to Wahisietel, solemnly, before teleporting back to Senntisten.

The dragonkin Strisath turned to his comrade, remnants of Lucien’s heart dripping from his claws. The deceased Mahjarrat’s blood was ink-like and thick, shining with a somewhat iridescent quality. “The False User is defeated.”

“Yes. The pain subsides,” Sithaph announced, licking his lips. Turning to the onlookers left on the plateau, he warned, “Know this, watchers: we answer only to the Stone. All will pay the price for its misuse.”

“The Dragonkin are awakened,” Strisath snarled, declaring, “This world will suffer as we do.”

Scooping up the Staff of Armadyl, they took to the skies, screaming as they went, until they disappeared from sight, lost to the distance of the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


	8. You Will Know Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 02: RITUAL OF THE MAHJARRAT  
> Chapter 4 - You Will Know Me
> 
> With the Mahjarrat Ritual upon them, Jahaan, Sir Tiffy and the others venture into the frozen North in an attempt to curtail Lucien’s latest power grab and reclaim the Staff of Armadyl. But a bloodchilling battle of the Mahjarrat might be the least of their worries...

Idria limped over to Sir Tiffy, her limbs bruised and battered, a scar quickly former underneath her right eye. “Lucien is dead, but we were too late. The dragonkin are here, and Akrisae...”

She broke off, her lip quivering. She shut her eyes tight, trying to block out the memory that wouldn’t leave her any respite. 

“I know, Idria,” Sir Tiffy placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We all feel the loss for one of our own, but right now, we need to focus, chaps. It's not over yet.”

Gathering his shield and resheathing his scimitar, Jahaan concurred, “Sir Tiffy’s right, we need to do something about the Stone. It's clear the dragonkin are linked to its use, and that Lucien's lust for power is what brought them here in the first place.”

“Yes, and the Stone is still here,” Wahisietel noted. “We must hide it away to prevent its further use… or misuse.”

“Good luck with that, my brother,” Sliske sauntered up beside Wahisietel, his wights absent from his side.

“Still here, Sliske? I thought you'd have left with the rest of them.”

“Not just yet. I wanted to introduce myself to our mutual friend,” he turned to Jahaan. “We've met before, but I doubt he remembers me.”

Jahaan raised an eyebrow. “I'm sorry, we've met?”

Sliske smiled, cheerfully, but there was a shadow behind his eyes. “Many times. Though it's nice to finally converse without all the charades and masks, isn't it?”

Jahaan didn't know how to answer. “I…”

“My name is Sliske. I've been watching you for quite some time now, Jahaan,” Sliske continued, “So I thought it only polite to properly introduce myself. After all, I have the feeling our paths are going to cross again very, very soon.”

Scrunching his brow, Jahaan opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Sliske smiled an unnerving, unreadable smile, and vanished into the shadows.

Blinking away the cobwebs, Jahaan glanced at Wahisietel. “ _ He's _ your brother?”

Wahisietel smiled thinly. “You don't know the half of it.”

“He was the acquaintance that told you of the dragonkin attack, wasn't he?” Jahaan guessed, finally piecing it together, though what bigger puzzle he was constructing, he had no idea.

Wahisietel frowned. “Yes. He must have known I would have come to you, to gather mortal allies from the only mortal I can trust. In doing such, I led you right to him.”

Shrugging, Jahaan casually remarked, “He seems… alright. I mean, he saved my life back there.”

Peering suspiciously over his shoulder, Wahisietel leaned in closer to Jahaan. In a hushed tone, he stated, “He may have saved your life, but I know that Sliske doesn't take an interest in things - or people - unless they serve to benefit him in some way. If there's one thing you can trust, it's that you can't trust Sliske.”

Chuckling, Jahaan assured, “Thanks for the heads up Ali- I mean, Wahisietel.”

Smiling warmly, Wahisietel said, “My use here has ended. I owe you enough to not betray you by watching what happens to the Stone. I return to Nardah. Farewell.”

In a haze of purple, he teleported away.

Seeing the area was clear, Thaerisk hurried over towards Sir Tiffy and the others gathered beside him. “We need to get the wounded back to Falador,” he stated, solemnly. “They won’t make it out here much longer.”

Nodding, Sir Tiffy ordered, “Get the druids to teleport them to the infirmary. Idria, I want you to get patched up too, ol’ girl. Thaerisk, you are to return here as soon as possible. I need your help with our little Stone problem.”

“Understood,” Thaerisk hurried away to complete his task. 

Once the wounded were safely dealt with and everyone but Jahaan and Sir Tiffy had vanished from the site, they looked uncomfortably between each other.

The silence and serenity of the plateau was harsh, a difficult transition from the bloodthirsty battle they’d left behind.

With a huff, Sir Tiffy stroked his beard, clearing out the tangles and ruffles he previously accrued. “Well, it looks like it's down to us two, Jahaan.”

“What now?” Jahaan queried. “I don't know how to move a relic of infinite power that unleashes guardians capable of defeating Mahjarrat. Do you?”

Shaking his head, Sir Tiffy replied, “Not a bobbin, but we need to do something with it. Its power is too much for any single person to control, after all.”

A smile tugged at Jahaan’s lips; he tried to conceal it. “I've been thinking of building a nice house. If there’s plenty of space in the garden, it might make for a nice water feature…”

Chuckling, Sir Tiffy wagged his finger. “Nice try, ol’ boy. I do hope Thaerisk has an idea, otherwise we really are up creek, what?”

Soon enough, Thaerisk teleported in. In the brief time he had spent back in Falador, he’d obviously gotten used to the warmer climate, as he’d foolishly taken off his overcoat and left it behind. Shivering slightly, huddling into himself, Thaerisk surmised, “So, we need to hide this somewhere it can never be found?”

Sir Tiffy nodded. “That’s right, ol’ chap. Do you know of anything in your teachings that can help?”

Thaerisk pondered for a moment. Finally, he replied, “Hmm… yes. Yes, I think I know just the thing. We can channel a teleportation spell.”

Jahaan didn’t seem all that impressed. “Any trained mage can teleport. Heck, I could probably do it with the right runes. Is that all you've got?”

Thaerisk explained, “You misunderstand. It’s a tri-fold mathematical teleportation spell. We can all hold numbers in our minds. I'll focus on depth, to ensure the Stone ends up deep underground and not in Varrock Palace gardens or something. Tiffy, you focus on any number, as big as you want. That can channel into the coordinates of the Stone. And you,” he pointed to Jahaan, “you focus on a simple number, used as a cypher for Tiffy's number. The spell will then go through each of our minds, encoding Tiffy's coordinate with your number, and my depth. Individually, none of us will know where it will end up.”

“Blimey, now that sounds like a plan!” Sir Tiffy cheered, slapping Thaerisk on the back. “I may be old, but I can still count just fine!”

“Good to hear. Let's get into position and then channel the spell. You okay over there, Tiffy?”

“Ready when you are!” Sir Tiffy affirmed.

“Jahaan?”

“Same here.”

“Then focus your minds… NOW!”

In a pulse of green light, before Jahaan could even register the action, the Stone had vanished into the ether.

Opening one eye carefully, then the other, Jahaan ventured, “Is it… is it done?”

Thaerisk straightened out the ruffles in his robe. “It is. Thank Guthix that's over. Back to Falador?”

“Righty-oh,” Sir Tiffy concurred. “I think after all this excitement, I need a nice cup of tea…”

 

When they teleported back to Falador, the sharp contrast in temperature ricochet through them like a gunshot, making them all shudder. It took a few moments to adjust to the ambient warmth surrounding them, but once they did, they made their way into Falador Castle, nodding to the Knights that guarded the gates as they went.

Sir Tiffy instructed Jahaan to wait for him in the study while he went to the infirmary to check on Idria and the others. Remembering the way, he took himself through the long corridors and thin passageways, ignoring the uncomfortable looks he received on the way, from Knights and kitchen staff alike. Feeling slightly insecure, he checked his head to see if they were looking at a wound or something else protruding oddly from him. Unable to find the cause, he instead worked to hurry his pace to get to the solitude of the study quicker.

Closing the door behind him, he relaxed back against the creaking wood and finally let out a pent-up exhale, relief washing over him. In the warmth and the low candlelight, he was alone.

He was alone, and Lucien was no more.

_ So why don’t I feel better? _

He’d dreamt of killing Lucien enough times, of finally seeing the wretched Mahjarrat draw his last breath. He dreamt of a dagger to his heart, a spear through his chest, a sword to remove his head… he’d even dreamt of Lucien being eaten alive by the Queen Black Dragon herself.

_ Well, this comes close enough, _ he accepted, trying to force himself to smile. It was an effort.

_ Maybe praying would help?  _ Jahaan considered, his heart feeling hollow. That unenthusiastic thought was chased down by a simple,  _ Meh. Who to? _

Born in Menaphos, he was raised to worship the Menaphite Pantheon, a group consisting of two gods, two demigods and four lesser deities. No-one outside the desert followed these gods, and those that moved out of the land they were born in often turned to other deities, like Saradomin, who was the god of the majority of humans on Gielinor.

Jahaan never converted to any of the other gods. He didn’t like the idea of blindly following one entity you barely knew anything about to the ends of the universe and back again. At least he’d actually interacted with Icthlarin, the Menaphite God of the Dead. Despite this, it felt odd praying to a god he’d met in person twice before, a god that called him a friend, with the sentiment returned. Praying to him now would seem... forced... and so Jahaan just let his mind continue on without the comfort blanket of prayer.

However, his solemn contemplation came to a crashing halt when the door behind Jahaan tried to open, jolting the startled young man forwards. Hurrying away from the door, Sir Tiffy entered with a full-bodied chuckle. “You okay, my lad?”

Regaining his composure, Jahaan hastened to refocus his mind on the here and now. “Sorry, I was just thinking…”

Shutting the door behind him, Sir Tiffy stroked his beard. “Yes, we’ve all had a lot to think about today… it’s been a tricky one, hmm.”

“That’s an understatement. How’s Idria? And the others?”

“She’ll make a full recovery,” Sir Tiffy assured. “We lost a few good men today, but they died heroes, and will be remembered as such. Thank you for all you’ve done, my boy. Your alliance with those Mahjarrat fellows, and the guts you had charging Lucien like that! Ha! I was dumbfounded, what? No my boy, that was an interesting move, but I like your style!”

“So, can I become a Temple Knight now?” Jahaan eagerly asked, proper convention out the window. He was washed over with a weird, uncomfortable mix of fatigue and adrenaline, and it didn’t let his mind tick to a steady rhythm.

“'Fraid not, sonny,” Sir Tiffy smiled sadly, patting Jahaan lightly on the back.

Jahaan's face fell. “Oh.”

“I’m saying no because you're a young lad with a lot of talent and potential. Tying you to a knighthood would be a waste of you. And be honest with me, do you really want to spend the rest of your days in Falador’s wall, ol’ chap?”

Jahaan winced, his shoulders sagging. It was answer enough, and it caused Sir Tiffy to chuckle.

“I knew from the start your heart wasn’t really in it. I may be old, but I’m no fool, what? Besides, we're a little bit stuck in our traditions, us Temple Knights. We only accept true Saradominists into our ranks.”

“I thought you said it didn't matter what gods I followed,” Jahaan protested in vain.

Sir Tiffy smiled, wryly. “That was a little white lie. If you were up to snuff - which you are, my boy - I would have found something else to reward you with. You passed my test. Bravo!”

He’d be lying if Jahaan said he wasn’t at least a little bit irritated, being used like that. But he’d also be lying if he said that he wasn’t used to it by now - people do have a habit of taking advantage of young, naive adventures, after all. However, he stayed his tongue, adjusting his tone to not convey his true sentiments when he said, “So… is that it? I’m to just toddle off on my way now?”

“Not exactly. I do have one little thing for you…” rummaging around the study for a little while, he found a blank sheet of paper and a quill pen. Carefully, he scribed out a little note, but made sure to block Jahaan’s view of its contents. After blowing it dry, he found an envelope, inserted the note, and found his wax stamp to seal the envelope shut.

Handing it to Jahaan - who was feeling increasingly like a mailman - he said, “Take this to Fionella of the Legends’ Guild. No peeking now, my boy.”

With only a mere moment’s hesitation, Jahaan took the envelope. Bowing his head, he thanked Sir Tiffy and made to leave for his temporary chambers, hoping it was implied that he could stay another night as he was too tired to start his journey now. However, at the doorway, Sir Tiffy caught his wrist and added, “Oh, one more thing - keep the armour, my lad. It was doing no-one any good in that store room.”

Now THIS lifted Jahaan’s spirits, taking away the pit of disappointment that had been lingering around mere moments before. Profusely, he thanked Sir Tiffy, bowing lowly as he tried his damndest to hide his grin and keep his cool. Closing the door behind him, Jahaan literally lept in the air with joy, though regretted the clink his armour made as he did so. With a smile that couldn’t be washed off, he began to make his way to his chambers. The rumbling in his stomach, however, decided to reorganise his priorities, and instead he made for the kitchen, wondering with glee what delights they fed the knights of the castle…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


	9. Temple Desecrated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 03: LET SLEEPING GODS LIE  
> Chapter 1 - Temple Desecrated
> 
> Jahaan stumbles upon a newly excavated chamber, one that a charismatic young stranger claims to be where Guthix resides under the earth. However, once this knowledge becomes commonplace, many different factions come to a head, either to protect the sleeping god, wake him, or destroy him...

Like Ozan, Jahaan took a ship to Catherby in order to avoid traversing the dangerous mountains that separated the two kingdoms - Asgarnia, housing Falador, and Kandarin, where Catherby and the Legends’ Guild were located. Catherby was the largest fishing village in Gielinor, home to some of the greatest fishermen in the land. The crisp, clear blue waters of the beach were home to vast amounts of different fish, all plentiful, all delicious to eat or, for those so inclined, profitable to sell. Glorious gold-plated ships were docked in the ports, side by side to the numerous fishing trawlers that strayed further from the shores to catch their supplies of fish. On his way to Burthorpe, Jahaan had spent close to a month on its soft, golden beach, loving the feeling of the slightly damp sand from the retreating tide between his toes. As it was summer when he visited last, the warm evenings allowed him to sleep under a blanket of stars and spend his days among the company of other fisherman, enjoying the past-time together. He made a fair bit of money that summer, selling what he didn’t eat to the local fishmongers. A part of him was tempted to stay there longer, almost indefinitely, to save up enough to rent out a small room in an inn, or maybe even buy a residence of his own. For a while he felt he could quite happily live out his life with lazy days of fishing, but he soon realised he was only kidding himself, and the serenity began to grate on him. With little more than his memories to keep him company, Jahaan became increasingly restless, the remnants of guilt from his first encounter with Lucien eating away at the edges of his sanity. Therefore, decisions were made, and he left Catherby for the Imperial Guard. Being back, however, brought with it some blissful memories, especially when that salty sea air slipped through his nose and hit his lungs. With a sad smile, he traced his fingers lightly over the armour at his wrist. His eyes gazed into the far off horizon, a watercolour of blue and pink, blending the sky together in a picturesque portrait only his eyes could capture. **  
**

Taking a seat on the sands, Jahaan removed his chestplate and started to work out the kinks in his back.

_I think I’ll catch some fish, build a fire, and settle down here for the night…_

It ended up being just under a week when Jahaan finally continued his journey, leaving Catherby behind him as he set out for the Legends’ Guild. The Guild wasn’t too far from Catherby, but it was still a two-day journey. Following the coastline took Jahaan a little longer than going direct would, but it allowed him easy access to fresh food and clean water. A night’s camp by the shore was never a bad thing in his eyes, and the day after, with a brisk pace, he made it to the Legends’ Guild by the afternoon.

The grasslands around it were dotted with pleasant little flowers, and trees of many different varieties lined the way. From oaks, to yews, and even an elder - firewood is never an issue on this path. Or, for the most ambitious, elder logs fetched a high price in the right market.

He saw about a dozen woodcutters making the most of the opportunity.

One thing that did puzzle Jahaan though - there was a large crater dug not too far from the entrance of the Legends’ Guild.

_Weird… that wasn’t here last time I came through this way. Are they digging a new quarry or something?_

Shrugging, Jahaan let it slide as he squared up his shoulders and strode up to the entrance to the Legends’ Guild.

As soon as he got close, the burly guard at the gate locked suspicious eyes on him; he tugged on the leash that pulled his dog into view, who maddly started barking at Jahaan and launching himself at the gate, as if he was starved and Jahaan was the only meat he’d seen in a week.

Cautiously, Jahaan slowed his approach. “Um, h-hello…”

“What’s your business here, stranger?” the guard demanded.

Wondering what he did to offend the gentlemen, Jahaan hurried to pull the letter from his backpack and held at out at arms length to the guard, slowly edging closer to the gate with his eyes fixated on the angry canine.. “Um, I have a letter from Sir Tiffy?”

It wasn’t a question, but that was the most pacifistic way he could voice the phrase. He’d already been almost eaten alive by one dog in recent memory - he didn’t want to make it two.

Snatching the letter from his hand, the guard examined the seal closely. Gruffly, he told Jahaan to wait there while he left go inside the Guild. The dog remained, teeth baring, eyes deadly.

Managing a weak smile, Jahaan whispered, “W-Who’s a good boy…?”

It did not have the desired effect.

Five terrifying minutes later, the guard returned to his post. Grabbing onto the dogs leash, he pulled him out of the way as he heaved the metal gates open, saying nothing as he let Jahaan pass.

Sending a smug look at the canine over his shoulder, he marched past the beautifully trimmed hedges and into the Guild.

As soon as he entered, an older gentleman with a long white beard and a full set of rune armour met him inside the doorway.

“Welcome,” the man warmly greeted. “My name is Radimus Erkle. I’m the grand vizier to this fine establishment. I apologise on behalf of Steven - he’s new here. I keep telling him to loosen up, but will he listen?”

Radimus laughed, and Jahaan followed by chuckling nervously.

Luckily, Radimus continued the conversation before the silence became awkward. “I read your note from Sir Tiffy. It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut. Am I saying that right?”

Confirming he was, Jahaan held out his hand to shake. “An honour to meet you too, Sir Erkle.”

“Oh, I’m no knight - just an old man who loves an adventure. Now, Sir Tiffy sent you here for a reason. Come this way…”

Through a large oak door and two grand hallways, the pair came to a marble staircase, surrounded on all sides by portraits of adventurers of old, famous ones that Jahaan had only ever heard about in campfire tales.

Motioning downwards, Erkle handed Jahaan back the note and said, “Give this to Fionella and she’ll take care of you. It’s only one floor down. Whatever you do, DON’T go down to the second floor.”

“O-Okay,” Jahaan, still quite frankly baffled by it all, carefully made his way down the stairs. The darkness started to increase the further he descended, but fortunately candlesticks were dotted around to guide the way. He made it to the right floor, a quiet hallway with a handful of quaint little doors on either side, and one at the end that was helpfully labelled ‘Fionella’s’.

Jahaan started to edge out of the stairwell, but then hesitated. Looking over his shoulder, then quickly all around him, he slinked back into the stairwell and, as quietly as he could, tiptoed down to the basement floor. A gloved hand made for the door handle…

A roar, so furious and ungodly it chilled Jahaan to the core. The sounds of sword meeting flesh, clashing with armour. A fall, a dive - who knows!

A hand tentatively hovered over the handle of his sword as he toyed with the idea of investigating further, against all sense and reason. That idea was stopped dead in his tracks by a hand on his shoulder, causing Jahaan to swing around in shock.

An unimpressed Radimus motioned to the staircase. “This floor is off limits. It’s only for the most worthy of legends.”

Guiltily, Jahaan hung his head and trudged back up the staircase, feeling like a child with their hand caught in the cookie jar.

Radimus pointed to the far end of the hallway, watching with a hawk-like glare to make sure Jahaan didn’t deviate from his course again.

After knocking on the door twice, a call came from the other side. “Come on in.”

The dismal looking room was nothing too spectacular. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this… no, this looked like your average storage room. A few chairs were lazily placed at the back of the room, while a dusty wooden desk separated Fionella from her guests. Behind the brunette were a large amount of tattered crates and cardboard boxes, victims to time and age. Blowing a strand of hair from her eyes, she asked, “Can I help you?”

Uncrumpling the note, Jahaan handed it to her. “Uh, yeah… I was told by Sir Tiffy to come to you with this.”

Adjusting her glasses, Fionella squinted at the handwriting. Occasionally, she glanced up at Jahaan before returning to the note. Sometimes she looked confused, sometimes impressed, and once she even laughed. Utterly confused, Jahaan resisted the urge to ask her to elaborate any further.

Shrugging, she screwed the note up and tossed it behind her. Jahaan held out a hand, opening his mouth to protest, but Fionella cut him off, saying, “Wait here.”

Leaving his mouth hung agape, he did as he was told. At this point, he was just resigned to whatever came next.

A couple of minutes and a large clattering later, Fionella emerged from behind a load of crates and boxes with a two long, thin crates of her own. Heaving it up on the table, she wiped the sweat from her brow and muttered, “I really need to build up my strength…”

She peered around the obstruction and drearily announced to Jahaan, “These are yours, courtesy of Sir Tiffy and the Legends’ Guild. Enjoy.”

Jahaan looked at the box, then regarded Fionella, hesitantly.

“What are you waiting for, Saradomin’s return?” she chided, ushering him to take the boxes from her. Sliding them into his arms, he thanked the young woman and staggered out into the hallway to unbox these ‘gifts’.

When he pried them open, he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

The first crate held two rune swords, unscathed and unparalleled in their craftsmanship, with a double-sheathed belt. They put his second-hand scimitar to shame. Carefully, he put the belt on and tucked them into their sheaths, feeling like the most powerful man in Gielinor. Weaponry really shouldn’t give anyone such a rush, but man, Jahaan felt like he was ten feet tall. In truth, he was never a fan of scimitars - they were an odd shape, and Jahaan awkwardly found himself slicing too far from his target as he misjudged the curvature of the blade. He noted that Sir Tiffy hadn’t provided him a shield, and wondered if that was intentional or not. After all, during the battle, his shield spent half the time on the ground. Kiteshields were so damn cumbersome when fighting human-like enemies. Trolls were one thing, and yes, when he managed to utilise it in time, it helped to protect him against the ice giants. However, Jahaan had always favoured speed and agility - why take the brunt of an attack when you have the ability to dodge out of the way entirely?

In the other crate was a yew shieldbow with about two dozen rune-tipped arrows and a leather quiver. Now, he wasn’t a bad archer, but he was no Ozan.  _At least now I have a reason to practice,_  he thought to himself as he repositioned the bow over his shoulders and adjusted the quiver

It was when he made it about twenty feet from the gates, the angry dog and grumpy guard in his wake, that he didn’t know what to do next. On his way out, he’d asked Radimus if Ozan had passed through, to which he replied that he left with Ariane two days ago, the pair making towards East Ardougne. Deciding that was a good a place as any to start, Jahaan thought he’d try and catch them before they moved on again.

“Hey mate, hol’ up!” a voice called out. When Jahaan turned around, he saw a sprightly young man chasing after him. Once he made it close enough, Jahaan noted the man sported a black feathered hat and an unshaven face. His clothing was just as unkempt as his facial hair, and from the bags around his eyes, it was easy to deduce that the man didn’t quite understand the concept of a proper night’s sleep.

“Can I help you?” Jahaan inquired, smiling amusedly at the poor man that was now doubled over, trying to catch his breath. The young man signalled for him to be given a minute’s respite.

“Whoa nelly,” he exhaled, deeply. “I really need to get in shape, yes I do. I can dig and dig and dig, but nope, runnin’ takes it right out of me, yes it does.”

Jahaan motioned over to the large pit the man had emerged from. “Don’t tell me you dug that all by yourself.”

“Why, yes sir, yes I did! Lost me some five good shovels. But it’ll be worth it when the museum sees what I bring ‘em, yes it will!”

“You work for the museum in Varrock?”

The man nodded eagerly. “Jus’ an apprentice for now, but oh boy, when they see what I’ve got! Oh boy! They’s always laughing at me, you see, for chasin’ this ‘dream’, they call it. They say I’m not ‘museum material’, but they just don’t get it! I here think I’ve just stumbled on one o’ the biggest historical discoveries of all time, yes I have!”

This peaked Jahaan’s interest. “What do you reckon you’ve found?”

“Something game-changin’!” The man cheered, clapping his hands together. “I reckon this is got something to do with Guthix himself! I’ve been studyin’ the area for so long, and I got me some help from those druids in Taverley, and they can vouch for this here energy that be coming from that hole. I uncovered a door an’ everything! Come look!”

Unable to resist the curiosity, Jahaan tagged along as the man bounded over to the substantial hole he’d dug for himself. True to his word, an ancient stone door had been uncovered, with leaf-like patterns carved into the frame.

He couldn’t help but be impressed. “Very nice. So, what’s inside?”

This is where the man’s enthusiasm skipped a beat, and a large frown overwhelmed his features. “That’s the thing, I haven’t gone through yet. I’ve been trying to open the door for ages, yes I have, but it ain’t no use. Maybe I just haven’t got the muscles, y’know?”

“So, you want me to help you open the door?”

“That, and more, if you’re up for it. Ya see, I ain’t no adventurer like yourself. You gotta take into account all the usual dangers of openin’ up ancient tunnels… traps, boulders, cave spiders, undead monsters… I thought it might be best if I’d get someone from the Legends’ Guild to lend a hand, y’know? And I see YOU walking out, Mr Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut!”

Jahaan crinkled his brow. “You know me?”

“Why, of course!” the man beamed. “Word travels around these parts, yes sir! You’re one of Sir Tiffy’s men! He only bothers around with the best, you know.”

Jahaan smiled, feeling his ego get a little cuddle. If this man planned on charming him into helping, he was doing a good job. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Oh!” the man held out his hand, then quickly withdrew it to wipe some soil off his palm, before offering it again. “Name’s Orlando. Orlando Smith. So, you in?”

Grinning, Jahaan seized the man’s hand. “Sure!”

“FANTASTIC!” Orlando looked like he was going to explode with glee. He practically leapt down into the hole with Jahaan in tow. When he placed his hand on the crevice acting as the door’s handle, Jahaan noted how warm it felt to the touch, almost hot, and it vibrated ever so slightly upon contact. Much to the surprise of Jahaan, and the awe of Orlando, the former managed to heave the stone door open without throwing his back out in the process. Orlando lit a couple of torches, handing one to Jahaan, before they both stepped inside, Jahaan apprehensively, but it seemed if Orlando had abandoned all previous reservations as he skipped into the cave.

“This is it! By golly, this is it! Oh boy, the museum’s gonna be so chuffed with me! We gotta take something back with us. Ooo but we can’t disturb anything… aww shucks… Still, this is incredible, yes it is!”

Inside, the stone walls were covered in carvings, floor to ceiling. Much of it was a strange language Jahaan did not understand, but Orlando said it looked familiar to him. The rest were drawings, figures etched in time into the stone. Many of the figures had been engulfed by the plant growth, but among the visible carvings, Jahaan recognized the snake, Juna, Guardian of the Tears of Guthix, alongside a giant insect. It seemed Guthix held them in high regard.

In the corner of the room was what appeared to be an inactive soul obelisk, yet when leaning in closer, Jahaan noted a faint hum could still be heard coming from it. Scattered on the floor next to it were broken remnants of vials, perhaps from the early days of herblore. The odd scrap of withered herb could be seen in amongst the shattered glass.

“Hey Jahaan, take a look at this,” Orlando urged, ushering Jahaan towards a cracked plinth. Atop it laid the remains of a blade, still emitting sparks. Pieces were undoubtedly missing, rendering it irreparable, even if it was safe to touch.

With a furrowed brow, Orlando muttered, “How strange. What we know of Guthix indicates he was a pacifist; completely against violence, yes he was. The sword looks like it has been recovered, and for it to be placed in such a prominent position… there are so many things we could learn! Still, my mother warned me against touchin’ glowin’ weapons of the gods, yes she did, so let’s leave that one be for a while…”

The two continued to examine the ruin, Orlando marvelling at every little thing he saw. After a while, he called Jahaan over again, remarking, “This here wall don’t match the other walls, no sir. I think there might be somethin’ beyond here.”

Pulling off some of the plant life that had been residing on the obscure looking wall, Jahaan marvelled at the intricate patterns carved into the stone, far more detailed than anything else inside the temple. Somewhat awe-struck, he couldn’t help but trace his finger across them. Alas, he was broken from his relaxing activity when the door creaking open by itself. The next room opened out in front of them, the walls similar to the last, but this time grass covered the floor, somehow alive despite the darkness. Six statues holding torches were dotted across the room, automatically lighting themselves once they sensed the presence of intruders. Orlando didn’t even get to marvel at his surroundings before a loud groan emanated from the far wall, startling him, and a shrill alarm pierced through the air.

Suddenly, three rock-like beasts prised themselves from the walls, each looking like fractured pieces of stone held together by tree bark. In place of an eye, they had the symbol of Guthix, and each was glowing a different colour. One red, one green, and one blue.

Hesitantly, Jahaan drew one of his swords from his belt. “Orlando, stay behind me.”

“WARNING: Mahjarrat lifeform detected. Mahjarrat will not be allowed passage. Retreat before further action,” the creatures ordered in unison. Their voices were bellowing and husky, fitting for their imposing stature.

“But we’re not Mahjarrat!” Jahaan cried, desperately, retreating back a few steps as the beasts advanced on him.

This proved futile as the creatures repeated, “WARNING: Mahjarrat lifeform detected. Mahjarrat will not be allowed passage. Retreat before further action.”

Jahaan steadied his grip on his sword, glaring at Orlando out of the corner of his eye as the man cowered behind him. “Orlando, is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No! We’re humans, we are!” Orlando maintained, a whimper in his cracking voice. “Please, we mean you no harm! They must be malfunctioning or somethin’ I tell ya!”

“ESCALATED WARNING: Mahjarrat lifeform remains. The threat will be eliminated. Retreat before further action.”

“Orlando, get back into the other room,” Jahaan warned, his eyes narrowing on the automatons that continued to creep up on him.

Desperately, Orlando pleaded, “Please, listen to us! We’re peaceful, I tell ya!”

“WARNING INEFFECTIVE. ACTION: Mahjarrat lifeform remains. Prepare for elimination.”

Jahaan’s eyes grew wide as one of the eyes of the beasts started glowing. “ _They_  aren’t peaceful. Get down!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


	10. Invaders Must Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 03: LET SLEEPING GODS LIE  
> Chapter 2 - Invaders Must Die
> 
> Jahaan stumbles upon a newly excavated chamber, one that a charismatic young stranger claims to be where Guthix resides under the earth. However, once this knowledge becomes commonplace, many different factions come to a head, either to protect the sleeping god, wake him, or destroy him...

The two men dove out of the way as a blast of magical energy shot at them, breaking the stone behind where their heads just were. Each of the three creatures seemed to sport a different fighting style, making combat much more of a challenge as they all seemed intent on fighting simultaneously. Seeing Jahaan as the primary threat, they focused their energies on him. The young man darted and dashed between the statues and pillars in the room while Orlando cowered in the corner, praying that if he stood still enough they’d leave him be.

 

The melee-based monster began smashing the ground in a fury, creating earthquakes that caused Jahaan to lose his footing and tumble to the floor. He just about managed to scurry away before the creature could finish the job and crush him into the dirt beneath them.

_ Okay, gotta keep distance until that one is dealt with,  _ Jahaan made a mental note to himself, sheathing his sword and quickly removing the quiver of arrows that was sticking up out of his backpack. Removing the longbow from around his shoulders, Jahaan quickly readied an arrow and, briefly poking out from behind his cover, began firing as quickly as he could load the arrows. The ones that hit its stone chest simply bounced off, but the ones that caught the bark that joined its limbs together seemed to cause the creature to falter. It wasn’t until Jahaan  _ eventually  _ (though if he was being honest,  _ accidentally _ ) caught the monster right in its eye did he truly find its weakness.

Jahaan kept his distance as much as possible, thankful that the slow creatures could only lumber towards him. It took almost all of his arrows and a lot of darting around the room to keep cover, but once enough arrows pierced through the creatures glowing eye, the light faded and the beast crumbled to the floor, breaking into hundreds of stone fragments as it fell.

With a satisfied and relieved smile, Jahaan quickly dropped his bow and arrow and unsheathed both his swords this time, charging at the two remaining automatons. Due to their reduced speed, coupled with the fact their attacks were most effective at long range, Jahaan could dash behind them, land a few decent hits, then retreat behind the safety of a pillar to catch his breath, before repeating the attack. The magic-based creature managed to catch him as he was heading back behind cover, sending him scattering to the ground. Thankful for his thick armour, no lasting damage was done and Jahaan could roll back to safety before they could follow up with a more damaging strike. Before long, the range-based automaton crumbled to the floor like its companion, leaving only the magic attacker for Jahaan to destroy.

_ If I catch his eye, he’s history,  _ Jahaan reminded himself, hatching a plan. A dumb plan, as it involved going right into the line of fire, but a plan nonetheless. Dropping his sword to the ground, Jahaan took the small runite dagger from his belt and began weaving his way towards the automaton. After a few close shaves, he found himself in range and, with a mighty leap, swung and pierced the dagger right through the creatures eye. It recoiled, groaning in distress, before falling to its knees and crumbling into small fragments.

Once the final creature was defeated, the alarm ceased. The silence was beautiful.

Jahaan brushed himself off, trying to catch his breath.

“Wow, that was awesome, mate! Yes sir, yes it was!” Orlando exclaimed, bounding up to him. “The way you took ‘em down, oh boy, it was the stuff of mighty warriors, yes it was!”

Too exhausted to fully appreciate the ego boost, Jahaan could only manage a small smile, requesting, “Would you mind collecting my arrows? I might need them again.”

All-too happy to be of assistance, Orlando leapt to his task while Jahaan reclined against one of the statues. After putting away his arrows and gathering up his sword and bow, the two men made towards the door at the far end of the room. A small part of Jahaan regretted ever agreeing to be this archaeologist’s bodyguard - it clearly wasn’t good for his health - but a large part of him couldn’t help but be enthralled in the mystery they were uncovering. It was the only thing stopping him from turning back now and going to fish in the comfort of Catherby.

The grand door opened as soon as they approached. With a hand on his sword, Jahaan stepped through first, scouting the surroundings. After a full minute of utter silence, nothing seemed to be trying to kill them, so they deemed it safe to pass through.

However, as soon as they crossed the centre threshold on their way to the next doorway, a large green snake teleported into the room, its golden eyes in narrow slits, glaring daggers at them. Jahaan recognized the being from the carvings earlier in the tomb, realising the serpent standing before them must be Juna, a Guardian of Guthix.

Juna slithered forwards, poised and ready to attack, ordering, “Leave now. You will go no further.”

Then, a skeletal hooded figure, draped in black, gripping a menacing scythe, teleported beside her. It was none other than Death himself.

Death drifted between them, his hands out in a calming manner. “Hold, Juna. I know this human. He is Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut, friend of Icthlarin of the Underworld, and thus a friend of mine. What are you doing here, Jahaan?”

“We came here looking for Guthix,” Jahaan informed. Then, it hit him. “I take it… wow. If you’re here, that means that this really  _ is  _ Guthix’s resting place.”

“It is,” Death confirmed. “We are here to protect him from those that would do him harm.”

“We ain’t here to hurt him, no sir!” Orlando maintained. Death seemed to furrow a brow at the excitable young man. Feeling like he’d forgotten his manners, Orlando hopped forward, his hand outstretched. “Name’s Orlando by the way. I’m the archeologist that helped discover this here cave, yes I did. Nice to meet ya, Death! Heard a lot about your work.”

Glancing at Orlando’s hand, Death pointedly ignored him and returned his focus back to Jahaan. “How did the doors open for you? No-one should be able to gain entry.”

“It must be Guthix’s doing,” Juna stated, a hiss to her words. “Nothing we have time to dwell on now. We do not have long. You must leave, humans.”

“Wait, not long before what?” Jahaan queried, now slightly worried.

Death explained, “This place has been undisturbed for thousands of years. When you entered, the Sword of Edicts began transmitting once more.”

A lump grew in Jahaan’s throat. “That alarm we set off in the cavern… it’s coming from the Sword?”

“Yes, the sword is transmitting. It has been since you triggered the system in Guthix's chambers. It's communicating with the stone circles across the world. When they were created, the stone circles were all in Guthixian hands; it would have been a very effective defense system.”

Orlando cried, “But they're not all in Guthixian hands now, no sir!”

“Indeed,” Juna acknowledged. “It will not be long until this chamber is invaded by our enemies. Guthix cannot be disturbed.”

“Would it be so bad if Guthix were to wake up?” Jahaan asked, cautiously.

Death replied, gravely, “Guthix has been asleep for so long. Even we - his closest followers - cannot predict how he would react to the world in its current state. The last time he awoke was… dramatic.”

“And if he died?” Orlando piped up, his tone too cheery to be believed. Death, Juna and Jahaan just stopped and stared at him for a moment, as if regarding a child.

“If he were to be killed,” Juna shuddered, faintly but noticeably. “Perish the thought… the edicts Guthix bestowed upon this world would cease to be, allowing the lesser gods to return to Gielinor. If that were to happen, another God Wars would undoubtedly commence, tearing the world apart once more.”

“We can’t let that happen,” Jahaan stated, his hand clutched around the grip of his sword. “It’s sorta my fault Guthix’s chamber was uncovered in the first place, so I’ll help to protect it.”

“Thank you, Jahaan,” Death said, “Icthlarin was right about you. You are a good man.”

Juna added, “And if he is here to protect our lord, then we have a common goal.”

Suddenly, Juna’s neck straightened to the ceiling and her eyes started glowing red. Taken aback, Jahaan and Orlando scurried next to Death, but he assured them everything was alright, explaining that Juna was getting a vision...

 

An imposing manor located east of Trollweiss Mountain, in the depths of the Wilderness, was the dark fort of the mighty Zemouregal, a powerful Mahjarrat servant of Zamorak.

Inside his private chambers, Zemouregal was staring intently into the mirror, practicing different variations of a scowl.

“No, too theatrical… too cliched…” he muttered to himself, shaking his head before trying another. “Well, now I just look like a horse.”

The winged abomination by the name of Sharathteerk barged the chamber, flanked by two dark robed humans; snapping around, Zemouregal's face seemed to be frozen on the horse-scowl, causing the robed humans to cower.

“Who gave you permission to enter?!” Zemouregal scolded, thankful his complexion didn’t allow his blush to be visible.

“M-My lord, I sincerely apologise, but this could not wait!” After bowing deeply, Sharathteerk announced, “My lord! The wizards have most intriguing news.”

Irritated at being bothered so late in the day, and still mildly embarrassed, Zemouregal urged, “Well? Speak quickly, welps. What is it?”

One of the dark wizards stammered in response, “S-s-sire, the circle. The stone circle at Varrock - it was glowing.”

Unable to look Zemouregal in the eye, the other one nervously continued, “And it let out such a sound! A great wailing, as if the stone itself were crying out! What does it mean, sire? Is Zamorak calling to us?”

“A wailing…” Zemouregal pondered. “This is beyond you. Be gone, and tell no one of this.”

After deep bows, the two dark wizards hurried to teleport away.

Sharathteerk was elated, in a maniacal way, at least, as he exclaimed, “You know what this means, sire! The alarm of the ancient chamber! Someone has discovered-”

“Guthix's refuge…” Zemouregal finished. “Never in my years did I think it possible. Sharatheerk, instruct the wizards to trace the signal to its source at once. And use any methods in your repertoire to ensure they work quickly. Guthix's edicts stop our Lord Zamorak returning. Imagine the glory of destroying Guthix, of breaking the edicts and bringing back Zamorak himself! Ha, that’ll show her!”

Sharathteerk furrowed his brows. “Who is ‘her’, my lord?”

“Um, n-nothing!” Zemouregal clenched his fists, trying to regain some semblance of his imposing and terrifying presence. “What are you waiting for? We must act with all haste! Go, now!”

 

Beneath the surface of Gielinor lies the so-called 'God Wars' caverns. There, generals of the gods continue the battle that was started thousands of years ago, oblivious to the passing of time. One such general was Commander Zilyana of Saradomin’s army.

A mage had informed her of the activities of the stone circles, causing Zilyana to gather two of her most trusted warriors as they set off from the dungeon of eternal warfare and towards Guthix’s final resting place.

“By Saradomin's word, we fly! Guthix will be destroyed, in the name of honour. For the return of our glorious Saradomin!”

The cheers of her army chorused as she flew off into the skies.

 

Juna’s head snapped back down to face them. “They’re on their way. Death, Contact the Void Knights. See if they can send a regiment over soon, though I fear by the time they arrive it will be too late. Time is of the essence. I will contact as many of the Guardians of Guthix as I can.”

“We must get into the Inner Sanctum,” Death stated. “However, the walls of the Inner Sanctum are impenetrable with magic. We can teleport no further. We must find a way to open this door, and I believe this contraption may be the way to do it.”

There was a small stone plinth beside the doorway with carvings of runes and other ancient languages scrawled onto it. It was the only noteworthy thing inside the chamber, so powers of deduction meant that it didn’t take much for them to figure out that this would open the door.

Or at least, so they thought.

Death placed his hands on the stone panel, but nothing seemed to happen - no light, no sound, no movement. Furrowing his brow, Death grew frustrated. “I do not comprehend.”

Orlando’s shoulders sagged. “How come you don’t know how to work this here thing? Ain’t you supposed to be some Guthix guardian or whatnot?”

“I am,” Death growled, backing off from the panel. “I do not understand why there is no reaction to my touch. Something should be occurring.”

Realising Juna was slightly limb-challenged, Jahaan took it upon himself to try and operate the control panel next. However, when he placed his hands on it, the panel started glowing and growing warmer. When he tried to move his hands, he found he was trapped, like he had been fused to the contraption.

Initially, he began to panic, until Juna calmed him down, explaining, “Do not fear. This is all as Guthix wills it.”

A green light engulfed Jahaan as he rose and then returned to the surface. As this was happening, the door to the Inner Sanctum opened.

Feeling fuzzy all over, Jahaan examined himself. “What… what just happened?”

“Guthix has given you his blessing,” Cres answered from the doorway of the Inner Sanctum. He looked similar to the automatons from before, only with glowing green symbols carved into his rocky chest. “He has chosen you as one of his creatures, a Guardian of Guthix.”

“An honour indeed,” a voice from behind them commented. Turning around, the group noticed a small group of white-robed figures had teleported into the previous room. Leading them, a decedent looking druid wearing a crown of leaves.

“Kaqemeex. I am so glad you could make it in time,” Death breathed a sigh of relief. “We are short on numbers as it stands.”

“Guthix be with you, Guardians,” he bowed his head slightly. “I have been in contact with the Valluta. She will be accompanied only by a small regiment, but arriving soon. There is a pest onslaught at present and she cannot spare the numbers.”

“Can’t spare the numbers for THIS?!” Jahaan cried, bewildered and outraged.

Kaqemeex shot him a look. “What good is a world overrun, hm? No. We will fight with what we have. We are stronger than our enemy, and we have Guthix on our side.”

“You have me too!” a chirpy voice came from the doorway. Turning to see its origin, Jahaan recognised it as belonging to Chaeldar, the highest slayer master in all of Gielinor, who just so happened to be a fairy.

Juna smiled. “It is good to see you again, Chaeldar.”

“And I,” Thaerisk, accompanied by his own druids, hurried into the chamber. When he saw Jahaan, he did a quick double-take. “My, we appear to be running into each other rather often, Jahaan.”

Wryly, Jahaan smiled. “I wish it were under better circumstances. Nice to see you again, Thaerisk.”

“Well, aren’t we just a ragtag bunch, set to defend the mighty Guthix, yes we are!” Orlando cheered. Everyone responded by giving him a look that screamed  _ ‘shut up Orlando’ _ , but no-one wasted their breath on the actual words.

Over the next few minutes, a handful more Guardians emerged, but not nearly as many as they would have liked. Morale was already at an all-time low when a large crash rocked the room.

“What was that?!” Orlando cried.

The Valluta, a giant tortoise and spiritual leader of the Void Knights, exclaimed, “They're breaking in already!”

Kaqemeex fretted, “We're sitting in the open. We have no organization!”

Stepping into the centre of the circle, Jahaan enthused, “Hold up, everyone. Think of it like this: if they’re already here then - like us - they wouldn’t have had much time to cobble together a formidable offence. All we have to do is hold them off this one time, and we can be better prepared with more defenders if they come back again. Guthix will be safe. We can do this.”

Death nodded. “Jahaan is right. We cannot have come this far to be defeated before the battle has even begun.”

Fiara, a giant earwig charged with defending the Fist of Guthix, declared, “We will stand and fight! For Guthix!”

“For Guthix!” the room chorused, those who had weapons drawing them in readiness.

“That's the spirit!” Jahaan cheered. “We'll show them what we're made of! First, we need to be prepared for them. Cres what can you tell me about this chamber? Any weak points? Resources we could use?”

Closing his eyes, Cres focused for a moment before replying, “My creations inform me that the points of breakthrough will be in the storage wings. That is where the loud crash came from earlier. There are four of them adjacent to this chamber, and the enemy will reach them first. They are smaller rooms than this. If we meet the enemy there, we will make a better defence.”

“Perfect. We should split up to defend each wing. Cres, you take your creations to one. Fiara and the Valluta, another. Chaeldar and Thaerisk, you'll need to work together. Death, Kaqemeex and the rest of you to the last. I'll help wherever I’m needed,” Jahaan organised, clutching tightly onto both his swords.

Kaqemeex frowned. “I’m afraid that, unlike Thaerisk, my druids and I have very little prowess in battle. We would be more of a hindrance than a help. We’ll remain in the main chamber, a last line of defence, where we can use the plant life around and the herbs we have brought with us to mix some healing potions.”

Jahaan nodded firmly. “Then I’ll team with Death.”

“I should stay in the main chamber to guard the passageway itself,” Juna declared. “Then if we-”

Another earthquake cut through the room, breaking Juna's speech mid-breath.

“No time for further deliberating,” Death summoned his mighty scythe. “Now, we fight! For Guthix!”


	11. But We Can Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 03: LET SLEEPING GODS LIE  
> Chapter 3 - But We Can Fight
> 
> Jahaan stumbles upon a newly excavated chamber, one that a charismatic young stranger claims to be where Guthix resides under the earth. However, once this knowledge becomes commonplace, many different factions come to a head, either to protect the sleeping god, wake him, or destroy him...

In the first storage room, Thaerisk and Chaeldar stood ready, determination biting back any fears they had as to whom might be charging towards them. From the sounds echoing throughout the chamber, whomever was coming towards their wing was very big, and very slow. It sounded like they were using their immense strength to force their way through the rock. Perhaps they didn’t have the intelligence to try any other way.

_ Stomp _

_ Stomp _

_ Stomp _

Thaerisk and Chaeldar kept their guard up, waiting.

Before long, the wall broke down as a giant green-skinned beast broke through, shoulder first, the large animal horns on his sturdy helmet being some of the first things to enter the room. He wore a necklace of skulls, with more being attached to his belt, and any clothing he wore was crudely crafted from something dead. Standing at ten feet tall, this was General Graardor, leading a small group of goblin foot soldiers.

“Turn back now,” Thaerisk ordered, his voice a blade. “You will go no further.”

The ogre-like beast laughed. “Graardor turn back? Tiny human has tiny brain! Puny balance god stop wars returning. Bandos - almighty war god - desire battle, so Graardor create it. Graardor smash Guthix skull with mighty fists! Graardor be best general of almighty war god! Squishy human and others will not stop me! Attack!”

Despite being a druid, Thaerisk had been trained in magic from a very early age. Against the brute strength and lumbering combat coming from the goblins and even Graardor himself, magic was an incredibly effective strategy. Using the runes in his possession, he cast a fearsome earth-based spell that knocked the general back for six. Meanwhile, Chaeldar dealt with the goblin forces. Even though she was vastly outnumbered, Chaeldar's size meant that she could move very quickly, making her well-suited against a slow enemy, like goblins were. Her weapon of choice was a small spear.

 

Meanwhile, in another storage room, the sounds of a manic scuttering suggested that there were multiple enemies trying to break through, and the foul stench of the undead could be smelled.

Before long, Zemouregal forced his way into the chamber, with skeletons and zombies behind him, his mindless legion.

Jahaan spoke calmly, with a strange glint in his eyes. “Zemouregal. You're late. Graardor is already in the process of being slaughtered by the Guthixians. You’d be wise to turn tail before you follow him.”

Zemouregal roared a laugh. “Hah! General Graardor… I wouldn't be surprised if the lumbering fool skewered himself on his own weapon. I would suggest you stand aside so I may get to Guthix sooner, but I think I'd prefer to destroy you and your weak companions first. A little payback for your intrusion in the Ritual.”

With an evil smirk, Zemouregal raised his hand, causing his undead minions to charge forwards, and the battle commenced.

 

As he was slow and fragile, Cres himself was no fighter. Therefore, he used his creations to fight for him, replicas of the creatures Jahaan had encountered earlier. Summoning an entire troop of automatons, Cres readied himself for the impending battle.

When Commander Zilyana broke through and an entire troop of white knights and Saradominist warriors followed, he felt his chances of victory slip away quite fast. Nevertheless, he was prepared to fight to the end, for Guthix.

“Step aside, creatures,” Zilyana ordered. The woman was an icyene, an ancient race of winged beings, and the leader of Saradomin’s army. “The glory of Saradomin demands it!”

Creaking his limbs into an offensive posture, Cres stated, “Your god’s ‘glory’ matters nothing here.”

Eyes narrowing, Zilyana drew her thin sword and held it aloft. “So be it. For Saradomin!”

 

One should underestimate the Valluta due to her appearance at their peril. Her shell was near impenetrable, and she had a surprising amount of speed and agility for someone of her size and build. Fiara too, was a fiery opponent, her far-reaching legs and insect-like tail all coordinated into a perfect rhythm, a dance of melee prowess.

The ones to break through and into their storage room were an Armadylian troop, led by Kree'arra, a graceful avatar of Armadyl. Kree'arra was a majestic winged being, feathers of pearl and gold that shone like fine silk even in the low-light of the cavern. He was a powerful ranger, armed with a formidable crossbow. Just as well the two tallest fighters were the ones to battle the ones that could fly.

Kree'arra settled on the ground, his small band of warriors behind him. “You should not be here, creatures of Guthix,” he warned, his tone soft and solemn. “It is not safe. Please, leave now.”

“We cannot do that,” Fiara replied, her voice measured. “Who are you? An aviansie of Armadyl, I gathered, but why are you defying your god’s code of justice and peace in favour of your intrusion here today?”

Exhaling a heavy, weighted breath, Kree'arra responded, “Believe us, bloodshed should always be the last resort… but Guthix is preventing Armadyl’s return. He… he has been missing for so long now. I find myself unable to recall his face to describe him.”

The Valluta declared, “I know of your kind, friend. You do not have to continue here today. Leave, and uphold your god’s principles. It is what he would want.”

There was a long, drawn-out pause, and even the avanasie warriors behind him actually believed Kree’arra was considering it. Alas, instead he withdrew his crossbow and steadied his gaze. “I’m sorry, but this is the way it has to be… for Armadyl…”

 

It didn't take long before Jahaan could coax Zemouregal to fight on his level; knowing he was at a slight disadvantage battling magic with a couple of swords, he goaded the Mahjarrat into duelling with him on his level.

“You think that your blue toothpicks stand a chance against me?” Zemagoural had challenged, summoning a black and steel two-handed blade into his palms.

Granted, Zemouregal was a skilled swordsman with great prowess, but he was a better mage. Now, Jahaan had a fighting chance.

While Death focused on the undead army, Jahaan did his best to keep Zemouregal at bay. Much to his relief and, frankly, surprise, he was succeeding.

The two of them leapt forward, their swords connecting with a fearsome clash. Zemouregal managed to have the strength advantage against Jahaan, pushing him backwards and gaining the upper hand almost instantly. Jahaan rolled out of the way as the black sword struck down into the space he'd occupied almost a millisecond ago. Each strike of sword on sword roared with a pugnacious applause.

The two clashed for ages, Zemouregal growing increasingly furious at his inability to land a killing blow on Jahaan. Unfortunately for him, this led to reckless attacks, misplaced swings and lunges that were far from the mark.

Zemouregal swiped for Jahaan's neck, but the young man caught it with his two smaller blades and twisted the sword from Zemouregal's grip. Using the momentary shock to his advantage, Jahaan sliced a deep cut into Zemouregal's thigh, causing the Mahjarrat to crumble to the ground. Before he knew what was happening, Jahaan had one sword trained at his throat and the other raised directly above his chest.

"Wait!" Zemouregal cried out as Jahaan went to drive the blade into his heart. Fighting for composure, Zemouregal took several deep breaths. "Fine. You win. Your precious God of Balance can live another day."

Jahaan smiled, smugly. “Nice seeing you again, Zemouregal. Let’s do this again sometime.”

“You can count on it, mortal.”

Death escorted him to the next chamber, where he could teleport away without the magic restrictions surrounding the current wing. As soon as he was comfortable at seeing him retreat - feeling the pride that comes with small victories - that happiness was cut in half with the sound of a crash and then a great many footsteps clattering into the main chamber. Quickly, Death and Jahaan hurried in to see Commander Zilyana and her Saradominist forces engaging the druids, Chaeldar and Thaerisk in combat. 

“The Bandosians were a piece of monkfish!” Chaeldar declared, nimbly weaving her way between a Saradominist’s attacks. They came a little too close for comfort; she resorted to blocking with her blade, but physical strength was not on her side. “These critters, not so much.”

Juna added, “Thank goodness you made when you did.”

Charging forward to lock swords with one of the Saradominist soldiers, Jahaan remembered that Cres was defending the wing that had been breached, and imagining the worst, worriedly inquired, “What of Cres and his creations?”

Kaqemeex was tending to a wounded druid when he replied, “My druids are tending to him, but being made of stone and bark instead of flesh and blood, there is little we can do to help him…”

“And the Void Knights?”

“Still fighting the aviansie,” Juna informed.

Jahaan ordered, “Death, go assist the Valluta and the Void Knights with the aviansie. If they break through as well, our chances are practically nothing.”

With a nod of his faceless hood, Death charged into the chamber, scythe at the ready.

 

The battle raged on for who knows how long. Jahaan got lost in the combat, fighting anyone in white armour with a star on their chest. Before long, Death and the Void Knights returned to the chamber, having driven the aviansie into retreating. The playing field was becoming much more level at this point.

Jahaan took a stab at Commander Zilyana, but before their clash could begin, a small explosion rocked the room, emitting from the direction of the western wing.

Into the chamber emerged only three figures, but they were among the most fearsome the Guardians had encountered as of yet. The first, Nex, a name derived from the Infernal word for ‘murder’. She was one of Zaros’ most powerful weapons of war, and one of the most featured creatures in all of Gielinor. Skin red like lava, she was covered in jagged horns and spikes across her chest and back, sharp enough to skewer anyone that came close enough to her. Atop her scaly head were five long horns, curling behind her like waves of hair. Her wings were a gradient of crimson and ashen black, tattered and torn at the edges, yet with bones in them strong enough to snap a mortal in two. The second, Char, a fire enchantress in the service of Zaros. While she was humanoid in figure, her wild hair defied gravity, shaped in curves and spikes, and her eyes glowed fire. Her palms were still glowing from the remnants of a fire-spell she must have recently cast.

Those figures Jahaan had only heard about from legends told to him. The third, however, Jahaan knew personally, as did Commander Zilyana, who disengaged from her fight to approach the three Zarosians. “Azzanadra,” she looked down her nose at the Mahjarrat. “I should have expected you Zarosians to lurk in the shadows, afraid to face those stronger than you.”

Nex hissed, “You watch your tongue, Zilyana, or I will rip it from your mouth.”

“You presume to speak to me, Nex?” Zilyana challenged. “You, who has been locked in your icy prison for thousands of years. Do you feel ready for a real battle again?”

“It seems you are outnumbered, Zilyana. It would be wise to back down,” Azzanadra advised, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “After all, had you not been so desperate to reach Guthix, I'm sure you would have noticed us shadowing your steps. Perhaps you would have thought twice before destroying half the defence, kindly clearing our path.”

“You dare-!”

Igniting her palms again, Char growled, “Oh, we are wasting time, Azzanadra. Let us just kill her and be done with it!”

“Calm, Char,” Azzanadra eased. “It is all in hand. It is no use fighting anymore, Zilyana. It appears we have a friend planted closer to Guthix than any of us could ever be. Jahaan, would you be so kind as to lead us to Guthix?”

Upon seeing Commander Zilyana square up to Azzanadra and the other Zarosians, Jahaan had picked his battles closer to the confrontation, interested as to how the two volatile parties would react. When his name was mentioned, he kicked the Saradominist soldier to the side, badly slicing the man’s arm as he did. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon, Azzanada.”

Juna shot Jahaan a surprised, troubling look. “You’re acquainted with a Mahjarrat? After all they did to your people?”

“It was a long time ago,” Jahaan explained. “I’d been enlisted to find a treasure inside one of the Kharidian pyramids. Finding Azzanadra was an… unexpected by-product. He told me his side of the story; I decided not to hold an aged grudge. Why should I?”

Disappointment evident in her tone, Juna shook her head and replied, “I did not see you as one to betray your principals so easily, human.”

At this, Jahaan swung around. “Hey, I’ve been risking my life to defend Guthix with you. The God Wars are long since over, and I’d be a stubborn idiot to hold onto the supposed ‘rage of my people’.”

“Thank you, Jahaan,” Azzanadra smiled in appreciation. “Now, while I would like to continue discussing our ideologies and histories at length, I’m afraid there are more pressing matters at hand. Guthix must first be awoken.”

“Ah, now THAT I can’t let you do.”

Azzanadra crinkled his brow. “We do not wish to kill him, Jahaan. We Zarosians believe that Guthix can be reasoned with, allowing the edicts to fall long enough for our master’s return. Besides, think of all we could learn from such a being!”

Commander Zilyana snorted in disgust. “Ignorant fool. You really think Guthix will be reasoned with? No, we must kill him - only then can the TRUE lord, Saradomin, return to Gielinor.”

“No, Guthix must NOT be disturbed,” Juna maintained, fiercely. She turned to Jahaan. “What say you, human? Please do not tell me you will side with the Mahjarrat once more.”

Pointedly ignoring the undertone in the snake’s hiss, Jahaan firmly replied, “Guthix must not be awoken, and definitely not killed. That’s where I stand.”

Azzanadra’s shoulders sagged. “Jahaan, surely not…”

“I'm afraid so. It’s the only way.”

“This saddens me greatly. I considered you a friend, Jahaan. However, Guthix must be awoken, for Zaros. As much as it pains me, if this means challenging you then… that must be the case.”

“Azzanadra, you sentimental fool,” Char spat. “If the human stands against Zaros, then he stands against us. Any obstacle must be destroyed in flame and fire.”

Suddenly, the ground began to shake violently, ripping everyone from conversation and combat.

“What's going on?” Kaqemeex tried his best to steady his stance, but ended up falling on his back. A Saradominist soldier tried to take advantage and strike him down, but ended up stumbling forwards and toppling to the ground instead.

Chaeldar cried, “The wall! Look!”

While everyone else was distracted, the door on the tableau wall had lit up before breaking open. However, no-one seemed to be close to it.

“That’s the pathway to Guthix,” Juna hissed, quietly, so only Jahaan could hear. “Go! Defend Guthix! We will keep these forces occupied.”

As soon as she finished talking, Juna lunged at Nex, but the demon was too quick and slashed her ferocious claws deep into Juna’s body, blood pouring from the wound instantly. The druids and the rest of the Guardians fought harder than ever before, Chaeldar challenging Char herself, knowing they were the last line of defence now.

Quickly, Jahaan raced through the hole in the door, sprinting through the chambers as fast as he could. He tightly clutched onto both of his swords, blood dripping from the edges as he ran, creating a crimson trail.


	12. End Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 03: LET SLEEPING GODS LIE  
> Chapter 4 - End Song
> 
> Jahaan stumbles upon a newly excavated chamber, one that a charismatic young stranger claims to be where Guthix resides under the earth. However, once this knowledge becomes commonplace, many different factions come to a head, either to protect the sleeping god, wake him, or destroy him...

The cavern appeared to be a bottomless abyss; the background was the darkest fathomable black, a blank canvas to star-like energy particles floating upwards into the nothingness. Beneath the platform Jahaan had entered, a figure stood tall, so tall that he could have stretched from the centre of the planet and Jahaan would be none the wiser, with thick green skin and a crown of glowing orbs to sit atop his humanoid head. He was most certainly awake; his blue eyes looked up at the adventurer with contentment.

_ Guthix _ .

Peering down over the edge of the platform, Jahaan saw a series of rocks jutting outwards, leading closer to Guthix. On these rocks stood Orlando, staring up at the giant deity. Jahaan was about to call out to him, when suddenly, a flash of light enveloped the architect, causing Jahaan to shield his vision. When he managed to open his eyes again, Orlando was no more, and in his place stood a shadowy figure.

His purple robes were broken up at the hood by stripes of red and black, decorative and imposing. Tiny yellow pupils glistened in his black, hollow eyes; when he turned to look up at Jahaan, his smile was wicked and mischievous, like one of a proud sinner.

Jahaan’s eyes narrowed into slits.  _ Sliske _ .

With a wave of his wrist, a large staff appeared in his hands, two golden wings at the end with a blue crystal in between them. Turning back to Guthix, he held the staff aloft, and moments later, a violent burst of lightning shot from the end and pierced into Guthix’s heart. Guthix roared in agony, shaking the chamber with his pained cries. An orange liquid started seeping from the wound, faster and faster as the staff’s energy plunged deeper into the god’s chest. Jahaan could only watch, helpless, as Guthix’s life force was drained away.

Content with the damage he had done, Sliske teleported away.

Guthix’s head lulled forwards, his chest heaving with staggered breaths as his raspy throat fought for air.

In the silence, Jahaan was frozen in place, unable to take his eyes off the wound on Guthix’s chest. He almost fell to the ground when a voice echoed around him.

_ “Do not be afraid. You have no enemies here. As I believe you know, I am Guthix.” _

Trying to regain a level-head, Jahaan cleared his throat before replying, “What just happened? Are you injured?”

_ “Sliske was wielding an elder weapon. A god slayer, if you will. I am dying, Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut. But we still have time. It has been most interesting watching your brave journey to get here.” _

Jahaan’s eyes widened. “You knew what was happening outside?”

_ “Yes. I saw everything. You put up an honourable defence and I thank you. Before the end, there is something I must show you. I must share this with someone, before these memories die with me…” _

  


When the world faded back into life, Jahaan was standing in a foreign land, consisting of what appeared to be giant trees supporting shattered floating islands, which had leaves dangling from the bottom of them. Lights could be seen hanging from branches, and broken paths connected some of the islands, which had tree roots flowing through them. Purple plants of varying sizes were found growing in every direction.

“Guthix?” Jahaan called out, puzzled.

“I am here,” Guthix assured, teleporting in front of him. He was considerably smaller than before, standing barely an inch taller than Jahaan himself. His skin was a mossy green, with shawn bark-coloured hair on his head. His golden robes were that of a simple man, tattered and passed down for generations, but still with enough life in them to last. He had no armour and bore no weapons, and anyone could not be blamed for mistaking him for a farmer of this world.

“I have taken a form from my past,” Guthix announced, quietly, as if he didn’t wish to disturb the silent surroundings.

“Your past? Where are we?”

“This is my homeland. Or rather, my last memories of it, moments before I left.”

Jahaan crinkled his brow. “Your homeland?”

The two began walking through the remains of this world. “Have patience, all will be explained. You saw Sliske - the Mahjarrat - deal his final blow... I am dying. I have slowed our passage of time momentarily, so I may share this with you. Many millennia ago, I was born here, on Naragun, far away from the land you call home. From as far back as I can remember, this world was in turmoil. My world was home to many gods; many beings who would claim it as their own. The gods fought relentlessly, and as more and more came, the fighting became increasingly vicious. War broke out and lasted for centuries. The world was ravaged, and the population decimated. And do you know who came out the victor, Jahaan?”

Jahaan shook his head.

“No one. No one emerged triumphant from this ordeal,” Guthix’s reply was sharp and loaded. “My people were killed. All of my friends, my family. I was left to stand alone on this devastated plane, with memories of what my life had been.”

There were corpses scattered all around the barren landscape; Jahaan deduced that these must be Guthix's memories of his friends and family, all killed in the wars that destroyed this world. Their clothes were basic, and they carried no weapons. They looked more like farmers and crafters than warriors, the kind of people that would not stand much of a chance against a god's army. It was sickening that so many of the dead were not soldiers. As the gods' battles became more fervent, innocent citizens must have become accidental casualties, eventually wiping out Guthix's race altogether.

“What about the gods?” Jahaan inquired.

“Many died. Many fled,” Guthix guided Jahaan to a dead god that loomed over the landscape, terrifying even in death. His appearance suggested that he was not a benevolent god, although even if he were it seems that none of the gods who visited this world cared much for the mortals living upon it.

“He is one of the fallen. A god, long-dead and forgotten,” Guthix explained. “In the last days of the war, I believed I was soon to die, too. There was no food, no water. I scavenged among the dead, until one day I found a weapon; a large sword, crackling with energy. I recognised it as a weapon of the gods. The 'elder weapons', as they referred to them. These weapons were prized among them, and they fought desperately over these. I knew it to be my only chance, so I took it. Having seen so much violence, I do not believe in it as a solution. But in this case, I had no other choice. In the dead of night, I crept from the ruins of my home. I found a slumbering god - the god you see before you - peaceful amid the rubble. I stabbed him with the elder weapon, driving it deep into his back. The weapon shattered as the god reared back in pain before crashing to the ground. As I watched him take his last breaths, I felt power growing within me. I became a god myself, equal to those who had tormented my life. I left this world and its painful memories. I fled for centuries, aimlessly wandering until something captured my attention. I felt drawn to a planet - Gielinor. It was beautiful, and more importantly, empty. It was somewhere I could hide, and mourn my dead. I had not expected to find the Stone upon it - the Stone of Jas - granting me a power greater than even the gods of my homeworld.”

The two walked past what appeared to be the remains of a ruined temple. Some of Guthix's race must have begun to worship the gods who came to this world, creating shrines and temples for them, becoming caught up in the very war that destroyed them. A warped form of Stockholm syndrome. If he squinted, Jahaan thought he could pick out a familiar symbol carved onto what was left of the shrine.

It was a four-pointed star.

Before he decided to continue that particularly saddening train of thought, Jahaan stopped their strolling beside an unidentified corpse. Unlike Guthix's race, this creature was clearly a warrior. It almost looked as if it was created purely for combat, with strong muscles and thick skin. It could have ripped a naragi to shreds in seconds. The creature was wearing tough armour, bearing the mark of a long-forgotten god.

Jahaan inquired, “What is this? It doesn't look like any race I've ever seen.”

“It is a god's warrior - a creature introduced to this world only for war. The sparring gods brought in other races to fight for them, creating their own armies, much like how the Mahjarrat were introduced to Gielinor. When I arrived in Gielinor, I spent a long time alone. I didn't know what my future held, or what I should do next. Eventually, I came upon what I believed was my purpose. I aimed to create a world free of the influence of gods, a world where the inhabitants would not have to fight other beings' wars. So, I introduced my own chosen races: humans, gnomes, dwarves, sheep... beings who do not strongly tend towards evil, nor good. I chose tribes who had no concept of gods, and I brought them to Gielinor, to live uninfluenced lives while I retained the balance. I even bought Seren with me, and she brought her elves…” Guthix paused for a moment, lost in his own reminiscing. Shaking his head, his light tone turned sorrowful once more as he continued, “But I was naive; my plan would never work. I should have seen it coming. I introduced the mortals to the world, and I had a power greater than they had ever seen. The mortal races began to worship  _ me _ . They built shrines to me, made sacrifices… they waited on my every word. It pained me deeply to see myself becoming what I had always loathed. They should not have been living beneath me. I wanted them to be free, balanced, to make their own decisions. Knowing my presence was thwarting my efforts, I withdrew into the earth, to sleep. I hoped I would be forgotten over the ages. But it was not long before the other gods arrived.”

As he spoke, Guthix’s voice was growing weaking, fading. “I feel my strength draining. We are nearly at the end.”

The two walked up some floating wooden steps, held together with study tree roots. Beside the steps stood a stone tablet among the ruins. The clarity of the writing suggested that Guthix had a strong memory of this tablet; perhaps it was something he saw every day, or something dear to him. Along the path, just beyond the stone, stood the crumbled remains of a house.

As they continued up the steps, Guthix continued, “When I ended the war of the gods, I did it with no pleasure. I already knew I had failed. Looking over Gielinor, it was like looking at my homeland: the land ravaged; the mortals worshiping a multitude of gods, including myself. The races brought in by the now-banished gods remained, and disrupted the balance at every turn. Battles raged on, in the names of the absent gods. I could banish the gods themselves, but I could not remove the memories of them, nor the blind faith displayed by their followers. Besides, my own interference would only disrupt the balance even more. I have disproportionate power, more than any single being should have. But now, balance will be restored, with my passing. I could have prevented this, Jahaan. I have been awake since you triggered the alarm. I knew what would happen.”

Realisation dawned upon Jahaan heavily. “You… you could have stopped Sliske... why didn't you?”

“Jahaan, I have been the most powerful being on Gielinor since my arrival. Of course I could have stopped Sliske if I had desired to. But I embrace my death. It must occur, if the world is to be balanced. If the gods return, another war is inevitable. Gielinor must be returned to peace before war destroys it... before it becomes like my own world. A dead, desolate wasteland... Gielinor must be protected, Jahaan. But not by me. By a mortal. Someone with the power to defend against the gods, but not the power to be one.”

Guthix cringed, clutching his chest as he groaned, “Ah… it is... the pain is becoming stronger. Please, follow me into me house… my home…”

The two walked inside the remnants of Guthix’s house. From what was left of the structure, it looked like something that, before being destroyed, was a lovely piece of architecture, strong but… cosy, almost. It… had an aura about, a warmth that Jahaan let pass over him. The house would have been big enough for a family. For Guthix’s family.

Now, there was only one bed left inside, and that was comprised of nothing more than a somewhat flat stone tablet.

Doubling over, Guthix clutched onto the wall for balance, a desperate attempt to remain standing. “I have... so little time. Please, listen carefully, Jahaan. I have already shared my power with you, chosen you as one of my creatures, so that you may reach this point. When this is over, you will find yourself with even more power. Power you may use to defend against gods. You must be a guardian of this world, Jahaan. Gielinor must be free.”

To see Guthix in such a weary state, to see what his world had become, and how it shaped him into the being he was known to be on Gielinor, Jahaan was on the edge of tears. He was not above admitting his emotions when such emotions were justified. Sniffing them back, he vowed, “I’ll do as you ask. I’ll use your powers to protect Gielinor from the gods.”

The smile Guthix managed was so weak, so frail. He edged over towards his bed and crawled on top of it. “I am glad to have found such a noble mortal as you, Jahaan. My blessing is with you.”

He closed his eyes, one final time. “It is over. My family waits for me. Remember... your purpose, Jahaan... and please… forget me.”

  


When Jahaan opened his eyes again, he was standing in the cavern, on the edge, looking down at the lifeless form of Guthix. It was so silent. The tears he had been holding back on Naragun released themselves here.

Numbly, he walked back through the tunnels, back out into the main chamber, where he found the fighting had continued in his absence. He didn’t even know how much time had passed; Guthix mentioned something about slowing the passage of time, but not to what extent.

What was evident were the casualties in his absence. Juna was lying motionless on the floor, with druids tending to her. From all sides of the battle, people had fallen.

His return to the main room caught the eye of Azzanadra. “Jahaan, what happened in there?”

Now, more and more people stopped their fighting to turn to him. The grave atmosphere was answer enough, but they all waited on baited breath, praying for their desired outcome.

Taking a deep breath, Jahaan looked among the faces of the crowd before announcing, “Guthix is dead.”

The chamber descended into silence, before some of the Guthixians broke out into quiet sobs and disbelieving whispers.

Even the Mahjarrat looked suitably shocked. Only the Saradominists had the nerve to look gleeful.

"I... I did this,” Jahaan continued, his voice wavering. “The man I brought with me, Orlando, was actually the Mahjarrat Sliske in disguise..."

Many of the gathered gasped, turning threatening eyes over to Azzanadra, who for his part looked just as horrified. “This… this was not our intention, you must believe me. He gave me his word. He...”

“To believe a snake?” Chaeldar spat. “We would be imbeciles!”

Kaqemeex put an reassuring hand on Jahaan’s shoulder. "You are not to blame, Jahaan. None of us saw through his deception. We share the blame."

The Valluta shook her head, her mouth held agape. "Guthix would not have let a peon like Sliske destroy him, surely?" 

Jahaan sighed at the memory. "It was his will. He said he knew what was to happen, and he accepted it."

"B-But why? Why would he leave us?"

Death cut in, "We could discuss this all night, but there is no point. Guthix is dead. His edicts are broken. That means the gods can return to Gielinor."

In a beat, it hit them all, with Thaerisk voicing the unspeakable, "The wars could begin again..." 

Suddenly, the ground started shake, knocking crumbling fragments from the wall out of their places and onto the ground, making rubble out of them.

“What’s happening?” Chaeldar cried, hovering higher to try and see the cause of the disruption. “Another Zarosian trick?”

Trying to maintain his footing, Azzanadra desperately protested, “This is not of our doing!”

  


Then, in a brilliant flash of blue light, a figure emerged. His skin was pale blue, covered by a flowing blue robe and gold armour. A gold and diamond two-tiered crown sat atop his head, and on his chest plate was printed the symbol of his religion - a four-pointed star.

He turned to Azzanadra and his small band of followers. “This is no place for battle. Go back to your hiding places.”

With a snap of his fingers, he teleported the trio away.

Instantly, Commander Zilyana fell to her knees in a deep bow. "Saradomin, my lord! You have returned! Look, our rival Guthix-"

"Silence, Zilyana,” his voice was booming, demanding obedience. “It is not right to revel in bloodshed. What has been done could not have been helped. Guthix was not an evil god. Like myself, he yearned to make the world a better place for those who dwell upon it. But his notion of balance was flawed, and his presence meant that I could not return. It was not an easy decision, but Guthix had to die. But, Zilyana, that does not mean we should gloat over the events here."

Rising to her feet, Zilyana bowed her head once more. "I apologise, my lord."

Saradomin turned to Jahaan, his demeanor that of someone who believes he rules over all be surveys, the superiority only a god can lay claim to. "So, human, you were alone with Guthix in his last breaths. Tell me, do you know who I am?"

Jahaan's initial response was to be measured - after all, he was in the presence of yet another god. But when he saw that familiar symbol emblazoned on Saradomin's chest, he instead saw red. 

"You were there, weren't you?" 

"Pardon?" 

"On Naragun," Jahaan pressed, his voice a blade. "You were there, in the wars. You tore Guthix's homeland apart." 

Saradomin sighed, almost in annoyance. It only made Jahaan angrier. "That was many centuries ago. You only have half the story, mortal." 

Jahaan knew how Saradomin came to Gielinor, knew his large, destructive role in the God Wars of the Third Age. His opinion of the deity wasn't anything special, but after seeing how he'd tried this act on world's before Gielinor infuriated Jahaan. "Oh, and what's the other half? You just wanted to bring peace and order to Naragun? The world was doing fine without you, just like Gielinor was." 

"Hmph. I see Guthix has been infesting your mind with many tales. No matter. I'm sure we will get to talk again in the future, and I do hope I will get to share my side of the story with you. Right now, however, is not the time, nor the place. Much has happened here today. With the edicts broken, the world will soon enter a new age. More gods will be coming... I apologise, human. I do hope we meet again, but for now I must ask you to leave. I have much to do here."

Saradomin attempted to teleport Jahaan away, just like he did the Zarosians, but the spell only knocked Jahaan a few steps backwards, like he'd been shoved. The deity crinkled his brow. "Interesting... you shouldn't be able to resist my power." 

Jahaan flashed a challenging grin, laced with fury. He made sure to pronounce every single word carefully when he explained, "I can resist, because before he died, Guthix imparted some of his power to me. Power to guard the world from the gods that wish to control it. Gods like you, Saradomin." 

Saradomin regarded the human before him with a reserved glare. "Impressive... Guthix must have seen something special in you. Or he was that desperate. Who knows? Consider your choices, human. Guthix may have presented you with the world as he sees it, but that is not the only view. There are other more worthy paths. No one should wish for another war of the gods, but sometimes violence is necessary before we can achieve a greater peace. It would be wise to ensure you are on the right side when that violence begins. I will leave you now to think on that. I'm sure we'll meet again... World Guardian."

Saradomin teleported away, and Jahaan dropped to his knees, his swords clattering to the ground. He fought desperately for breath, to regain composure, but it was an uphill battle. The confrontation with Saradomin, coupled with the trip through the memories of Guthix, had drained Jahaan both physically and mentally.

“So this is it, then,” the words caught in Fiara’s throat. “Guthix is dead.”

“We have little time to mourn,” Death replied. “Saradomin has returned.”

“You are right. We must act quickly if we are to mount a defence, to protect ourselves,” the Valluta stated firmly. She turned to Kaqemeex and the druids surrounding him, asking, “Juna… will she live?”

Kaqemeex sighed, heavily. “She sustained a large gash in the battle. I have administered all I can for now. She’s alive. Whether she regains consciousness is another matter.”

Chaeldar rubbed the tears at her eyes, angrily. “I’m going to make Sliske pay for this.”

“You aren’t the only one who wants to make Sliske suffer,” Jahaan asserted. “Right now though, we need to think of the bigger picture. The gods are coming back. We need to focus on doing what we can to minimise their damage.”

“And what can we alone hope to do?” Fiara’s tone was one of defeat.

Sighing, Jahaan replied, “I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”


	13. The Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 04: THE BATTLE OF LUMBRIDGE  
> Chapter 1 - The Shadow
> 
> Now that the gods can return to Gielinor, Saradomin and Zamorak waste little time and return to war once more. This time, Lumbridge is their battlefield. While the battle wages on, Jahaan tries to find out more about the mysterious Mahjarrat who has taken a particular interest in him...

Despite its fairly large population and wide coverage of land, Lumbridge retained many of the characteristics of a quaint little village. Often regarded by most as the ‘warm heart of Gielinor’, Lumbridge’s buildings were old-fashioned, bright white paint covering the study wooden shell; black cladding was attached for decoration, and the roofs were thatched straw, woven together delicately and with expert craftsmanship. The River Lum weaved its way through the town, dividing it in two. Farmland occupied a lot of the land close to the river, with lucious crop fields and pastures for livestock to roam inside, cared for by the many farmers of the town. One never felt too far from company in the embrace of the Lumbridge community, from the sweet milkmaid Gillie Groats, to Father Aereck, a Saradominist priest inside a small church that stood for over two hundred years, longer than Lumbridge Castle, all the way to the duke himself, Duke Horacio. The duke was a rotund, bubbly gentlemen that took the pride of Lumbridge to heart, using it as a measure of the success of his reign.

Throughout its history, Lumbridge had many problems with goblin raids from western tribes. Fortunately, an unspoken ceasefire was in operation between the humans and their goblin counterparts, though the trice was uneasy, evident by the number of guardsman present on the outskirts of the town. Thanks to the diplomacy of Duke Horacio, peace had been kept thus far.

However, on this day, the tranquil little town of Lumbridge was to be shattered, beyond the realms of a meager goblin raid, and beyond the repair of Horacio’s diplomacy.

This was the day Zamorak returned to Gielinor.

 

_ A few days earlier... _

After the events that had transpired in Guthix’s cave, Jahaan returned to the Legends’ Guild, hoping those with a little more experience than him might have some wise words, advice, rationalisation - he’d even settle for a limerick. Anything to make sense of what had transpired and, more importantly, where to go next.

Instead, they were a little less calm and collected than what he’d hoped. Many of them simply didn’t believe Jahaan at face value, which was understandable. It’s not every day you hear one of the most powerful gods in Gielinor’s history has been murdered. After a trip to Guthix’s final resting place and a conference with the Guardians of Guthix that had remained there to build a shrine, reality sunk in. Those that did believe Jahaan, or were then shown proof, didn’t take the news all that well.

The Guthixians among them went into mourning, and even those that didn’t worship the deceased deity felt the heavy toll of losing him, especially since one particularly troubling fact hung over them…

...now, the other gods could return to Gielinor.

When Jahaan couldn’t take any more of their worrisome deliberating, he asked if he could take to one of the visitor bunks and try to shift the weight of the day from his shoulders.

_ A good night’s sleep is what I really need, _ he kept telling himself, subtly praying that everything would sort itself out by the morning. Of course, nothing’s as easy as that. Even sleep seemed to be a trial, for every time he closed his eyes, he could see Naragun, the innocent Naragi scattered across the wastelands of their home, and Guthix taking his final breaths on that stone tablet.

_ “Remember your purpose, Jahaan... and please… forget me.” _

Those last words echoed a haunting mantra inside his mind, ceasing to allow him a moment’s peace.

_ That smile… _

In the darkness of his mind, he also saw that smile of Sliske’s, smug and full of malice.

Turning on his side, Jahaan let out a heavy sigh and resigned himself to the fact he wouldn’t get much sleep that night.

 

Turns out he didn’t get much sleep that night, nor the two nights that followed. The days, also, were very restless. The Guild was chaotic, and Jahaan had taken to spending much of his time wandering aimlessly in the forest between Seer’s Village and the Guild. This, however, was not as relaxing as it sounded.

Every single person Jahaan locked eyes with, he was suspicious of. They could be giving him a pleasant smile or a tip of their hat in greeting, and Jahaan would turn a cold shoulder. When he made it up to the pub in the Village, thinking it’d help clear his mind to knock back a few, the crowded atmosphere only made things ten times worse. Their laughing, chattering… everything set Jahaan on edge, and even the whiskey couldn’t sooth his state of mind. People would sit next to him, and he shot daggers in their direction, unprovoked and unnecessary. His shoulders remained hunched and tense, his hand clasped tightly around the whiskey glass, ready to use it as a weapon at a moment’s notice.

_ “We've met before, but I doubt he remembers me… I've been watching you for quite some time now… I have the feeling our paths are going to cross again very, very soon…” _

The words echoed around Jahaan’s mind like a death rattle.

Orlando had been Sliske in disguise, and Jahaan’s inability to see through such a facade led to Guthix’s death.

It was hard not to feel responsible; he’d been played for a fool.

While he’d first brushed off the ominous words of Sliske at the Ritual Site, he now examined them in a much more serious light, with all the consequences that had followed in the recent days.

_ Who else had Sliske been? _

It was the overarching question of the day. He’d obviously encountered the Mahjarrat before in one of his many disguises, shapeshifting prowess being a natural talent for his kind. Had he been a merchant trying to sell him wares? A soldier in battle? A stranger across from him at the bar?

For all the acquaintances he’d made in his years, Jahaan found himself pouring through each and everyone one of them to see if he could find a hint of Sliske within, all the while pouring more and more whiskey into his system.

 

In fact, he’d drank so much whiskey that he ended up falling asleep at the bar counter, only to be shaken awoke by a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Jahaan?” the voice was gentle too, a hushed whisper. “Jahaan, it’s time to leave. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Stirring slightly, Jahaan’s neck creaked like an ancient door as he turned to the disruption. The sudden change from darkness to the light of the bar caused an onslaught of double vision, but through blurry eyes, he just about made out the pastel-coloured shape of Ozan leaning over him.

Smiling, Jahaan drawled, “Heyy Ozan… I thought you and Ariane were in East Ardougne. W-Where’s Coal...?”

“We got back this afternoon,” Ozan replied, perching himself on the stool next to Jahaan’s. “Ariane’s babysitting. She loves the little fella. I heard you were down this way, thought I’d join you for a round before the place closes. I think you might have drank all their booze, though.”

Jahaan rubbed his aching temples. “Did they tell you about Guthix?”

“Briefly,” Ozan confirmed, solemnly. “You’ve got a lot to explain once your hangover passes. Come on, let’s get you to sleep.”

“Yes, sleep...” Jahaan mumbled, the world swaying as he slowly rose from the stool. He thanked fate that Ozan had come to find him, since he doubted he’d be able to stagger back to the Guild on his own.

_ Very convenient, _ Jahaan thought to himself. Then, like a matchstick to oil, the thought caught fire, and spread fast.  _ Too convenient… oh gods... _

Jahaan jerked away from Ozan’s hand.  _ How did I not realise before? Ozan never went to the cave, never saw ‘Orlando Smith’... he could have easily become him... _

Looking puzzled, Ozan ventured, “Jahaan? You alright, man?”

The glare Jahaan shot back could have burned through flesh; Ozan flinched, edging backwards ever so slightly. “W-What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Jahaan’s teeth were rattling as he tried to keep composed. It was harder said than done since the effects of the whiskey had far from subsided.

Ozan looked around him, warily. “Uh, yes? It’s me?”

“You might as well drop the disguise. I know it’s you.”

Now, Ozan was utterly baffled, and slightly scared. “Uhh, Jahaan? Gonna need a little more than that. Who do you think I am right now?”

“Sliske,” Jahaan spat the name like it was poison.

Ozan’s brow furrowed; this did not abate his confusion. “The dude from the Ritual Site?”

Suddenly, in the mere blink of an eye, Jahaan shot forward and slammed Ozan into the bar wall behind him, clattering into it with a pained thud. Ozan opened his mouth to protest, but find the words fall lifelessly from his lips with the cold metal of a dagger pressed against his neck.

“You’re not fooling me again,  _ snake _ ,” Jahaan coldly vowed, his red eyes unblinking.

Most of the few remaining patreons swiftly made for the door, though others watched morbidly, their breath bated, eyes full of blood. The bloodlust was shared to Jahaan, who dug the edge of the runite blade slightly deeper into Ozan’s unprotected neck, drawing a thin line of blood as he did so.

Biting back bile that clogged up his throat, Ozan tried to calm his own breathing as he stammered, “Y-You’ve known me since… since we were little tykes! Y-You know I’m not S-Sliske!”

“I only know  _ someone _ ,” Jahaan countered through gritted teeth, “Sliske said he’d been following me for years, disguising himself as others around me, and what better way to do that than to assimilate himself as my ‘best friend’?”

Cursing internally, the fear in Ozan’s eyes grew as he knew Jahaan had a very good point. Now, it seemed that just begging and pleading his innocence wasn’t going to be enough. He had to think, and fast.

Then suddenly - miraculously, more like - it came to him.

“T-The Mahjarrat, you said they could sense each other, right?” Ozan babbled, pressing himself so far into the wall behind him he felt he’d become one with it at any moment. Yet this time, there was light in his eyes, a hope dancing inside the pupils. “Azzanadra! You and me got him out of that pyramid. If I was Sliske, he would have  _ known _ !”

It was Jahaan’s eyes that betrayed him first, the blink of realisation that made him feel sick to the stomach, more so than the whiskey ever could.  _ Oh gods... _

Quickly, Jahaan peeled the dagger off Ozan and stumbled backwards. “Oh gods, you’re right…” he looked heavily up at his friend, age in his features. “Ozan, I…”

Prising himself off the wall, Ozan rubbed away the crimson dribbling down his neck. It had unfortunately already stained his clothing. “You’ve… you’ve had a lot to drink, and a long few days. Let’s… let’s just get back to the Guild.”

Ozan limped out the bar, and Jahaan skulked after him.

From across the room, a blonde man watched them go. He sipped the last remnants of his drink, and smiled.

 

“Now just tense the string, hold it tight - steady, steady! You’re shaking! You’re gonna kill the cows in the next field at this rate.”

Jahaan slept for most of the next day, waking up only to empty the contents of his stomach and sip delicately at a glass of water. Luckily, once Jahaan had explained himself and apologised profusely for the whole dagger incident, Ozan was inclined to forgive him. He knew his friend well, almost too well, and had learned that alcohol-fueled tempers were rarely personal. This time, with everything that had gone on with Guthix’s death and the poisonous seeds this ‘Sliske’ fellow had planted, it wasn’t much of a surprise that Jahaan hit breaking point like that.

So, to help his friend decompress after the events in the cave, Ozan offered to take Jahaan to the Ranging Guild a little up the pathway to practice his archery.

“Ego’s the only reason I came out of that fight with Zemouregal unscathed,” Jahaan had gravely explained, “Next time, he might wisen up and use magic, so I need to get better at a long-range combat style, and fast.”

Being renowned as one of the best archer’s in all of Gielinor, Jahaan thought he couldn’t be in better hands than Ozan’s when it came to this. It came so naturally to Ozan - his bow was like a third arm. Translating that to Jahaan was…  _ difficult _ .

Granted, Jahaan wasn’t  _ bad _ , by no means. Almost all of his arrows had hit the target, and a couple even got dead centre.

“OZAN!” the sharp, alarming cry startled Jahaan, causing his arrow to embed in the fence post to the side of the target, a good two feet from the mark.

Snapping around, the two men saw a young lad huffing and gasping for air, bright red in the face. “Urgent. Guild. Come now!” was all he managed to choke out before his throat gave up.

Exchanging worried glances, Ozan and Jahaan picked up their supplies before rushing back to the Guild.


	14. Chaos Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 04: THE BATTLE OF LUMBRIDGE  
> Chapter 2 - Chaos Theory
> 
> Now that the gods can return to Gielinor, Saradomin and Zamorak waste little time and return to war once more. This time, Lumbridge is their battlefield. While the battle wages on, Jahaan tries to find out more about the mysterious Mahjarrat who has taken a particular interest in him...

For darkness, there is light. For evil, there is goodness. For chaos, there is order.

For those that believed in the stark black and white of this world, they would say ‘for Zamorak, there is Saradomin’.

Saradomin was the most widely worshipped god on all of Gielinor, standing as the god of order, wisdom and light. His followers would also characterise him as the ‘god of goodness’, but those who were not fooled by all the propaganda would see that he exists in shades of grey. Though it is true that Saradomin is largely benevolent and strives to do things he regards as ‘righteous’, he is far from the personification of ‘good’ that his followers might have you believe. Indeed, he is relentless and ruthless in pursuit of his goals, often toting that the ends justify the means. His followers are almost fanatically loyal to him, no doubt blissfully unaware of his darker side. The Saradominist propaganda department was incredibly impressive.

Then, to contrast the supposed ‘god of order’, there was Zamorak, god of chaos. Once a Mahjarrat, Zamorak usurped his previous master, Zaros, and in doing so, ascended to godhood.

Although Zamorak is considered as a mystical infatuation of chaos by his followers, he is seen as an evil god by his rivals and their followers. However, there has been a great deal of historical ignorance with respect to the humans of Gielinor who got influenced by Saradomin. It’s true, many would have to jump far beyond their own shadow in order to deal with the foundations of Zamorak’s beliefs, but once examined closely, he is not the deity of evil so many would believe him to be. His teachings state that self-improvement, greatness, strength and purpose are brought by chaos, whereas order and constancy supposedly lead to stagnation of society, and this was ultimately the reason he turned away from the Zarosian Empire. He does not condone violence for the sake of violence, nor does he wish for the mass-slaughter of any race or religion of Gielinor, instead wanting them to liberate themselves and become truly free.

No, contrary to popular belief, things weren’t always as clear cut as they seem for the deities of Gielinor, especially when morality became a factor.

But nevertheless, the Saradominist/Zamorakian rivalry was fierce and relentless, each side desperate to do anything to make the heads of their enemies roll.

 

The portal in the centre of Lumbridge, right next to the canoe station, had appeared out of nowhere, a black hole punched into the air. The general response was one of apprehension and fear, although a handful took to worshipping it.

They were simple people, the Lumbridge folk.

It didn’t take long before the portal expanded, ripping through the world like it was tearing through cotton. With it, it brought darkness to the skies, turning the bright blue and crystal clear day into an overcast mess, with black ink pouring out from the portal.

Then, out from the black, Zamorak emerged.

Towering over the miniscule little buildings beneath him, Zamorak stood almost as high as Lumbridge Castle itself. Red appendages stuck out from his grey face like branches on fire, the colours matching his red and black cloak, broken up at the shoulders by black and gold plates. His symbol, something that resembled a pointed ‘W’, was woven into his robes. Dark crimson wings stretched outwards as he took in the brisk air with a contented sigh, cracked his knuckles, and sneered. “I’m back, bitches.”

Zamorak stomped through the town, master and commander of all he surveyed. At least he was courteous enough not to tread on any actual people, though a few fences felt his wrath.

Then, a pulse of blue energy at his back stopped him dead in his tracks, though the meagre blast was more of an irritation than an attack.

“Who dares?!” he whipped around, and his eyes looked down at a tiny little Saradomin glaring up at him with a challenging upturn to his mouth. Sniffing a laugh, he greeted, “Old Saradomin… come to tell me you’ve missed me?”

“Yours is a sight I’ve enjoyed living without,” Saradomin grew to the same size an Zamorak, matching his fiery stare with one of his own. “I’ve come to finish what was started all those years ago, now Guthix can no longer interrupt us.”

“Game on,” Zamorak teleported to one end of Lumbridge, while Saradomin whisked away to the other. They seemed oblivious to the people scurrying below them, ants in comparison, not even sure where shelter would be in the presence of two gods that could turn a house to dust in an instant. No, Saradomin and Zamorak’s gazes were firmly locked on one another, a rivalry everlasting, eternal until one of them was cast into the abyss. Thousands of years of fighting, millions of lives lost…

...now, they were gearing up for round two.

It was a standoff, a tense silence of scowls and clenched fists, onlookers awaiting the first move with terrified, bated breath.

Suddenly, Zamorak cast a surge of energy his foe’s way, the first move, sending the dominos falling. Saradomin countered with one of his own, and the two blasts collided mid-air with such velocity and power that the explosion and subsequent shockwave it produced decimated the centre of Lumbridge, turning it to rubble in an instant. Even the western side of the duke’s castle shattered.

When the dust settled, the sky had turned a sickly green colour, looming over the ruins of the once lovely little town. Everyone too close to the epicentre of the colliding powers felt the full effects of godly magic. Even those further away did not leave unscathed, being thrown back in the wave that followed the clash.

The two gods glared daggers into one another, teeth bared and dripping venom. Then, from out of nothing more than the rocks, dirt and rubble beneath them, they pulled up barricades around themselves, shaping hardened battlements.

With a cackle and a wash of flames, a young woman teleported in front of Zamorak, her skin a twisted blend of human and iron coloured scales. Her eyes glowed magenta, matching the short and flowing dress she sported underneath sparse golden armour.

At the same time, a flash of white lighting hit the ground, revealing an icyene warrior after the glow faded out. When they spread their wings to reveal themselves, Commander Zilyana stood resolute.

Then, from both sides, White and Black Knights teleported in front of their respective gods, legions of them.

“FOR ZAMORAK!” the woman at Zamorak’s side roared, unleashing her troops into combat, charging towards their White Knight counterparts. Zilyana ordered her troops to advance, and the two opposing sides met in the ruins of Lumbridge centre, erupting into battle.

 

Hours had already passed by the time Jahaan, Sir Owen, Ozan and company had made it to Lumbridge. Once they received word, the Saradominists among them sprung into life, snatching their weapons and throwing on their armour for the chance to fight in the presence of their god. Ozan, Jahaan and the Guthixians (like Ariane) were a little more hesitant to rush into battle for gods that weren’t their own. However, knowing it was important to make themselves useful at such a time, they teleported to Lumbridge with them regardless.

Sir Amik Vaze met them at the Saradominist base to the north of the city; the mill had been converted into a makeshift base of operations. They arrived under the shadow of Saradomin, darkness cast over them from his overbearing presence. Jahaan looked up and saw Saradomin’s piercing gaze staring off across the battlefield. When he followed them, they met Zamorak, who was a spectacle of crimson and black at the far end of the town.

“Sir Owen, good to see you,” Sir Amik greeted, his helmet underneath his arm.

“And you, Sir Amik,” Sir Owen returned. “I trust you’ve managed to gather our forces without resistance?”

“Of course. The White Knights and Temple Knights came instantly. Those spread out across Gielinor have all confirmed they are en route.”

Sir Amik led the small group over to a map of Lumbridge stretched out across the long table, weighed down by cutlery holders and sugar bags.

“This is the crater,” he pointed to the centre of the town. “It has green divine energy emitting from its core. While not confirmed by the Lord himself, the working theory is that it’s leftover lifeforce from Guthix. It’s increasing Saradomin’s power, and so he has asked us to deliver it to him. The Zamorakians, unfortunately, have the same idea.”

“Then that must be top priority,” Sir Owen asserted.

“What about the civilians?” Jahaan pressed, “ _ They _ should be the priority. Are they being evacuated?”

“Yes, those east of the Lum have been allowed refuge in Al Kharid, though it's been a little tense at the border. West of the Lum is slightly more difficult. Draynor isn't responding to our correspondence. We're setting up camps in the north west to avoid an incident.”

Ozan shook his head, disappointed. “Why am I not surprised.”

Then, he straightened up his jacket and made for the door. “Jahaan, you coming?”

“Yep, let's go,” Jahaan agreed, following him out.

Puzzled, Sir Owen chased after him. “Where do you think you're going?”

Calmly, Ozan replied, “Home. I'm not fighting your wars. I'll help my people.”

Gobsmacked, Sir Owen growled, “And what of you, Jahaan? We need fighters! Didn’t Guthix make you a ‘world guardian’, or something? Well, do your duty - guard the world and fight for the glory of our lord!”

“Hey, he’s YOUR lord, not mine,” Jahaan returned, though with slightly less composure than Ozan. “I'll do my part, but I don't owe your god a damn thing.”

Ozan gave Ariane a sheepish little wave, who returned the motion with a heart-melting smile. Coal, ever to ruin the moment, hopped off Ariane’s shoulder and lept into Ozan’s arms, who squeezed him tightly.

“I’ll take good care of him,” Ariane assured, motioning for Coal to return to her.

Without another word, Jahaan and Ozan made for the Al Kharid border, which wasn't too far from the eastern edge of town. 

It was miraculous how the bizarre climate of Gielinor operated; within one's eyesight, they could see the lush grasslands of Lumbridge transition into the sandy deserts of the Kharidian Lands. However, they weren't always deserts. No, during the Second Age, the Kharidian Lands were as full of life as anywhere, all until the battle that settled the wars in the region for the rest of the God Wars. That was the battle where Tumeken, leader of the Menaphite Pantheon and God of the Sun, sacrificed himself and his armies to push back the Zarosian forces once and for all. The explosion that occurred destroyed the land, turning it into a barren wasteland that would never recover. The shockwave stretched all the way from Uzer to the southern shores of Menaphos.

The climate never recovered, and the temperature increase as one left Lumbridge towards Al Kharid was unmistakable. 

 

Fortunately, the two men had kept ahold of their identity papers throughout their travels, making passage through the border a lot easier. Ozan was well known among the authorities of Al Kharid, for better or for worse, which acted as a passport in its own right. Jahaan, on the other hand, was as much of an outsider as the next guy. During peace times, this wouldn’t be an issue, as anyone can pay the border fee and enter the city. During a conflict, however, they didn’t just let any random bloke with a pair of swords into the city, regardless of the origins of their name or the complexion of their skin.

There was a queue separating them from the border, with refugees from Lumbridge trying to make their passage into the city. Predominantly, they were women, and a few men looking a little worse for wear.

When they made it to the front, Ozan handed his identity papers to the guard that beckoned him over. “ _ Marhabaan _ , Fahri, long time!”

The guard looked at his papers closely, a wry smile on his face. “ _ Marhabaan _ . Been a while, Ozan. Causing trouble for the other kingdoms, have you?”

“I like to share myself around,” Ozan winked at him.

Fahri rolled his eyes. “We’ve already filled up two folders on you. Please don’t make me have to buy a third.”

Grinning, Ozan exclaimed, “You’ve been keeping a full record! I want to read this! Nostalgia purposes, and all.”

Handing the documents back, Fahri replied, “If you want to know what’s in your file, just think back to all the shit you did that you know you shouldn’t have done, and write it down. You’ll need a lot of papyrus.”

Then, his eye caught a look at Jahaan, who was having trouble dealing with the border guard across the way. Squinting, he ventured, “Jahaan? Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut?”

Looking for salvation in the familiar voice, Jahaan glanced around for its origins and settled on Fahri, relief spreading across his tired features. “Fahri? Is that you?”

Grinning, Fahri cheered, “How long has it been, my friend?”

“Too long,” Jahaan admitted with a sad smile. “It’s good to see you again.”

“And you. Are you having an issue, here?” Fahri looked over to the border guard Jahaan was dealing with, posing the question to him more than anything else.

With an open hand, the guard motioned at Jahaan’s rune armour. “He looks like a knight to me. He’s armed like one too. We’ve been told no knights.”

Crinkling his brow, Fahri turned to Jahaan and inquired, “You are dressed very well. Are you a knight?”

“Nada,” Jahaan replied, before correcting with a wince, “Well, I almost was, but they turned me down. The armour was compensation for the trouble. There was a battle, Mahjarrat rituals, long story. I’d love to tell you the whole thing over a drink later on, but right now, Ozan and I just want to do our part and help out the medics.”

Shrugging, Fahri turned to the border guard and said, “He’s a citizen of Menaphos, and I believe him when he said he’s not a knight. Let him in.”

Smiling gratefully, Jahaan assured the drink offer wasn’t just bluster, and they agreed to catch up after Fahri’s shift ended at sundown.

“May Het be with you, friends,” Fahri said as they passed through into the warm embrace of Al Kharid.

 

Al Kharid was the only desert kingdom that wasn’t separated by water from Misthalin, the kingdom Lumbridge resided in. In fact, despite their only being a mere fence between the two cities, they might as well have been separate planets for all the similarities they shared. Al Kharid was ruled by the Emir, although the vast majority of the work has been taken over by Chancellor Hassan ever since the Emir's son was kidnapped. Whilst being independent from Misthalin was a given, Al Kharid was notable for being the only city in the desert that did not kowtow to the Menaphos rulers, unlike the rest of the Khandarin Desert. Naturally, this friction erupted into a bitter war in the early Fifth Age, lasting decades. Fortunately, a peace agreement was established to protect the people and prosperity of both cities, and thus the free movement of all desert residents was permitted. Al Kharid was also the last city in the Khandarin Desert to be established, being built in the last years of the Fourth Age by settlers from the Southern Kharidian Desert. One important similarity that united all of the Khandarin Desert - with Al Kharid being no exception - is that the dominant religion was the Menaphite Pantheon. Most of the citizens of Al Kharid took to worshipping the demigod, Het, the god of health and fortitude.

While Al Kharid sent no soldiers to fight in the battle of Saradomin and Zamorak, they had agreed to help the refugees fleeing the destruction, and tend to the wounded on all sides, regardless of religion or politics. It came from the teachings of Het instilled in the residents of Al Kharid, meaning they had the desire to help and heal all that they could without hesitation. A noble people, and values Jahaan and Ozan both shared. It was the reason they decided to return to Al Kharid, to tend to the wounded. Both men knew field medicine, and felt a patriotic pull towards tending to the injured over taking up arms for gods they didn’t support.

 

After venturing through the bustling crowds of residents and refugees alike, they made it to the crucible of activity, the place where people seemed to be either marching towards or returning from.

From the last time he was in Al Kharid, Jahaan recollected there being a market square right about where he was standing, where the tradesmen would shill everything from silk to gemstones, pots to bowls, and LOTS of waterskins, always handy for desert travel. Now, however, it’d been converted into a makeshift military hospital, with canopies and tents stretching almost to the city walls of the western end of Al Kharid. They were still rather close to the border gate, with people being stretchered past them sickenly often.

Blood stained nurses and franctic surgeons dashed past them to run to the nearest scream or wail, carrying instruments and soaking rags as they did. Jahaan caught the eye of one woman in particular, her eyes bloodshot and red, empty of all life yet full of the desperate drive to keep going, to deliver the potions she was transporting to her next patient, to work until she collapsed from the sheer exhaustion of it all.

It was evident that they were short staffed; Jahaan noticed a few people that looked like regular merchants and priests donning protective gloves too, helping out wherever they could.

“I’m going to find the surgeon general, or anyone who can point us to where to begin,” Ozan announced, disappearing into the masses.

 

Jahaan was patiently awaiting his return when, from the corner of his eye, he saw people rushing towards the border as the sound of shouts and clattering built to a crescendo. The ruckus blended together the Common Tongue and the Menaphite Language quite roughly, a jagged mix of curse words and obscenities.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he went to investigate.

Crowds had gathered around the border gate, but they gave the commotion a wide berth. When he weaved through the crowds and made it to the fence, he saw four White Knights waving a piece of paper in front of one of the border guards’ faces, yelling, “These are my orders and you’re going to damn well carry them out! Do you understand me?”

“I’m not doing anything for you,  _ effendi _ ,” the guard, Fahri, spat the courteous title like it was bile in his mouth. “We’ve taken in your woman, your children and your injured. My orders are to let no knights through this gate.”

The White Knight squared up to Fahri, towering over him by a good few inches. For his part, Fahri didn’t act phased. “You listen to me,  _ effendi  _ \- if Saradomin wants Al Kharid, he’s going to get it, even if we have to take it for him. All we want is a base, to protect you from the Zamorakians. Isn’t that what you want? Am I speaking in simple enough terms for you? These are orders from Saradomin himself!”

“I understand, but do you know where Saradomin’s jurisdiction stops?” Fahri smiled smugly. “This gate.”

Apparently, this was the final straw for the knight, who pushed Fahri back into the fence with such power that he almost toppled over it. The other three guards readied their scimitars for combat, while the knights drew their own longswords.

This was enough for Jahaan, who hopped the fence and demanded, “Hey, is there a problem here?”

Picking himself him, Fahri turned to Jahaan and calmly assured, “Ease, Jahaan. We have this under control.”

“Yeah, back off, sandboy,” the knight sneered, his hand on the hilt of his own weapon.

“What did you just call me?!” Jahaan charged up to the knight now, staring him with fire in his eyes.

“You heard me,” the knight rounded on Jahaan, looking him up and down. “Whose corpse did you steal that armour from anyway?”

“I’ll get my next set from you if you don’t fuck off right now.”

The knights all snickered, taking a few steps back from their leader, creating a ring around the two.

Their leader’s smirk was a challenge, his eyes an insult. “You sandboys are all the same. Scrappy and foolhardy. Walk away before you get yourself hurt.”

With a clenched fist, Jahaan leaned closer to the knight, his voice a blade. “Call me ‘sandboy’ one more time. I dare you.”

“Or what?”

“Just… do it.”

Looking around at his fellow knights, who’s looks egged him on even further, the knight turned back to Jahaan and started, “Sandb-”

But before he could finish the last syllable, Jahaan whipped his dagger out at lightning speeds and slashed the man’s throat. Lightning couldn’t have moved as fast. Those that blinked would have missed the action, left only to see the wide-eyed knight clutching desperately at his throat as blood streamed through his fingertips. Within seconds, he fell to his knees, and finally the ground, a puddle of crimson pulsing from his neck, his body convulsing sporadically until it stopped moving all together.

Jahaan watched him fall with cold eyes. Then, he calmly put the still-dripping dagger back in its sheath, and drew one of his swords as he turned to the remaining, terrified knights.

With a sigh, he stretched out the kinks in his neck and readied his stance, inviting his first contender.

“Jahaan!” a wild voice called out from behind him, but Jahaan’s gaze never wavered.

When the voice called again, it was much closer now. There was a brief murmur in the crowd, and then the next thing he knew, Ozan appeared in front of him, standing delicately between him and the knights.

If he saw Ozan, it didn’t register on his features; his deathly glare was locked onto the three knights, a cool as the blade he was holding, ready for blood.

“Jahaan, I thought we pushed past this,” Ozan whimpered, holding out his arms in a desperate effort to keep the knights and his friend at bay. When he looked closer into Jahaan’s hollow eyes, however, he noticed they were staring right through him, like he wasn’t even there.

“Jahaan,” he repeated with increased urgency. “Jahaan, look at me. Jahaan.”

A brief, fleeting glance in Ozan’s direction.  _ Progress _ .

“He just murdered a Saradominist commander!” one of the knights exclaimed, but there was a slight waver in his voice. “H-He’s coming with us to answer for his crimes!”

Ozan glared through the knight, his voice deadly serious as he replied, “Try it. Each and every person here will take up arms before they allow you to hang one of our own. You’re outnumbered, effendi.”

The remaining knights looked to the crowds behind Ozan and Jahaan, and everyone they saw might as well have had a pitchfork in their hands, because they’d nailed the angry mob look to a tee. The border guards, Fahri included, saw no objection to fighting the knights to protect Jahaan, tightening the grip on his scimitar.

“Gather your man and go fight your war,” Ozan continued, quietly. “This can be dealt with later.”

Two of the knights looked to their new would-be commander for approval, and when they got it, they picked up the corpse and edged backwards, careful not to startle the mob or the angry men with scimitars as they did so.

“We’ll be back, and your man will pay!” the would-be commander shouted as soon as they were a safe enough distance away. Then, they hurried back to their camp, their tail tucked rather neatly between their legs.

Ozan felt his whole body relax with the relief of it all. However, Jahaan had yet to recover. He still had that same empty glare in his eyes, the tightness in his lips, the firm grip on his sword; it was fight or flight, and from experience, Ozan knew that unless his friend was grounded soon, things could only get worse.

“Jahaan. It’s me, Ozan. They’re gone. It’s okay now,” Ozan’s voice was soft, reassuring. “Do you know what you just did, Jahaan? You slit a man’s throat. A White Knight’s throat.”

Jahaan’s breathing changed ever so slightly.

“Jahaan, let’s look at this seriously, okay?” Ozan tried to keep his friend lucid, tried to make him see the gravity of the situation. “You just murdered a Saradominist knight. You could be hung for this. Do you understand?”

Jahaan was blinking more now, his breathing starting to become slightly slower. “I just-”

“No no,” Ozan returned to the task at hand. “Murder. Execution. YOU.”

Finally, Jahaan’s eyes met Ozan’s, and they melted with realisation. “ _ Ya alqarf _ .”

Ozan’s shoulder’s sagged with relief; he had his friend back. “Yes, ‘oh shit’. Indeed, ‘oh shit’. We need to hide you in the desert. Come, quickly.”

 

The two hopped back over the border and made a break for the bank, knowing there was no way they’d survive the desert heat with all Jahaan was wearing. Even runite armour has its limits. Quickly undressing down to his undershirt and black trousers, Jahaan handed over the set to the banker, alongside his shieldbow and quiver of arrows, and one of his two shortswords, after providing his account name and bank PIN. Unphased, the dead-eyed banker took his armour without word, a world-weary look about him and an unspoken sigh in every breath. With a wave of his hand, the armour was teleported away to wherever items go to when banked. Jahaan didn’t really pay attention to any economics lessons growing up, so how the bank actually worked was beyond him.

_ Let’s just say magic and leave it at that, _ pretty much summed up his feelings on the matter.

Withdrawing a few more waterskins he’d deposited ages ago, Jahaan handed them to Ozan to fill up at the fountain across the way. He also withdrew a little more pocket change and a cowl to protect his neck from the beating sun.

But something was eating away at the back of his mind, and he couldn’t let it go.

With a reluctant sigh, Jahaan called out, “Ozan, you can’t go to the desert.”

Puzzled, Ozan turned around and, with a hint of urgency as he looked towards the border gate in the distance, responded, “What are you talking about? You can’t stay here right now. They could come back any minute!”

“That’s not what I said,” Jahaan clarified, softly. “I have to go, but you don’t. Al Kharid is your home, these are your people… you know you want to stay and help them. I couldn’t let myself take that opportunity away from you.”

Ozan may be a man of the world, a jack of all trades and a friend of all peoples, but despite his cavalier attitude to life and his tendency to flit from one town to another in a heartbeat, Jahaan knew how much the chance to give back to his home city meant to Ozan. He’d never say it aloud, but Jahaan knew regardless. Despite the drunken bust-up in Seers’ Village - to which Jahaan still felt overwhelming embarrassment - he did know his best friend, better than anyone.

The softening of Ozan’s eyes told him everything he needed to know, and the man broke out into a sad smile. Handing back his waterskins to Jahaan, Ozan pulled the man into a tight  _ (but manly, totally manly)  _ embrace.

“Will you go to Menaphos?” Ozan queried, releasing his hold.

Shrugging, Jahaan replied, “I… I don’t know. It’s been so long… I have a friend I want to pay a visit to first, in Nardah. After that… who knows?”

“And when do you think you’ll be back?”

“At least a week, maybe two. If they come for me, tell them the truth, that I went into the desert. They’d be idiots to follow.”

Ozan sniffed a chuckle. “They’d be dead in a day.”

The two said their goodbyes, parting amicably, knowing in their heart of hearts it was the right decision to make.

But before he could get too far, Ozan called out, “Hey Jahaan, one last thing.”

Turning around, Jahaan motioned for Ozan to continue.

Grinning, Ozan said, “Saradomin or Zamorak. Loser buys the rounds. Fahri’s too.”

Thinking for a brief moment, Jahaan decided, “Saradomin. By sheer force of forehead, Sir Owen will not lose.”

“Guess I’m Zammy then. Long live chaos!”

“For order!”


	15. Over To Nardah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 04: THE BATTLE OF LUMBRIDGE  
> Chapter 3 - Over To Nardah
> 
> Now that the gods can return to Gielinor, Saradomin and Zamorak waste little time and return to war once more. This time, Lumbridge is their battlefield. While the battle wages on, Jahaan tries to find out more about the mysterious Mahjarrat who has taken a particular interest in him...

The Kharidian Desert was a vast land found south of the wooded kingdom of Misthalin and Morytania. The desert was the home to some of the oldest civilisations in Gielinor, ranging from the Menaphites that built the cities of Ullek and Uzer, to the bandits that are almost all that remain of the followers of Zaros. As a result, it is amongst the most history-rich and treasure-filled areas in the world. It is this that has attracted so many archaeologists and explorers to the area, but not without consequence. Here the scorching desert winds blasted the sand, turning the dunes into a sea. The blazing sun watched tirelessly from the sky, slowly draining the life of all that walks beneath it. The vultures circled overhead, eating the corpses of those that the desert bested, and packs of starving wolves searched endlessly for prey, their hunger never sated. Many have entered the desert, never to return.

Indeed, the Kharidian Desert has earned its reputation as dangerous, merciless, and unyielding, especially to those who underestimated it.

 

Because he did not have a deathwish, Jahaan took a magic carpet ride to Nardah, happy to pay the pricey fee over the alternatives, which included, but were not limited to: a camel ride with a rather surly camel, or one that dabbles in bad romantic poetry; riding in the back of a cart, potentially in a barrel (he’d seen a man transporting a woman in a barrel the last time he crossed the desert, but was certain it was a mirage… potentially… it was up for debate); or walking it. That last one… was tricky. He’d traversed the desert on foot before, leaving Menaphos on foot and, over a period of months, with a lot of pit stops at hydrated cities, made it all the way to Al Kharid.

It was not an experience he cared to repeat.

Now that magic carpets were a thing that even he could afford, he hopped on gladly, thankful that the breeze from the motion took over from the chokingly humid desert air that would fill his lungs with sand. He didn’t exactly understand how these carpet rides worked, how they knew where to go without a driver, how they avoided all obstacles in their path, so Jahaan just accepted the answer of ‘because magic’ and left it at that.

 

It took only a few hours before the carpet landed safely at Nardah. When Jahaan stepped off, his body still felt like it was moving, his head swirling, and it made him feel rather dizzy. This proved most notable when he tried to walk in a straight line and veered distinguishably to the left, much to the amusement of the magic carpet operator.

Now he had the tricky task of remembering which house was the right one.

It had been a couple of years since he’d last been in Nardah, but thankfully the city hadn’t changed all that much in the meantime. Previously, during his first excursion through the town, it was experiencing a severe drought. Many believed this was due to a curse placed upon the city by the goddess, Elidinis, who founded the city in the first place, and felt betrayed when a Saradominist preacher convinced the residents to worship the blue lord over her. Thankfully, this curse had been reversed in the meantime, and Nardah was hydrated and prosperous once more. Nevertheless, the city still appeared dilapidated and old, almost like a ruin, with many of the sandstone buildings crumbling.

Due to their near identical nature, it was hard to remember just exactly where the house he was looking for was located.

_ On the outskirts, past the fountain, not THAT fountain… I think it was to the west of the library… was this statue here the last time I came through? _

The internal mumblings in Jahaan’s mind did not echo confidence, and he grew more and more frustrated as he passed the same smither’s workshop three times.

Eventually, he gave up, feeling like a defeated tourist, and asked for directions from some of the locals. At least then he was going in the right direction.

Finally, he arrived at the quaint little building he sought, a ornamental plaque hung from a nail on the door confirming this.

Jahaan knocked twice on the sturdy door, hearing the deep echo the contact of his knuckles made against the wood and noted it as a sign of good craftsmanship. It was a new addition to his humble abode.

Moments later, the door was prised open, and Ali the Wise greeted Jahaan with a pleasant smile and a humanoid appearance. “Jahaan! I did not know I would be seeing you so soon. Please, come in.”

“Wahisietel,” Jahaan greeted, walking through into his friend’s living room. The place hadn’t changed much since the last time he had passed through, though the book collection had, miraculously, increased tenfold. He’d also splashed out on a new set of bookshelves to match the lovely oak door, and even a new set of pots for the kitchen.

“Sit down, allow me to make you some tea,” Wahisietel offered, motioning to the cushioned chairs. As he busied himself in the kitchen, Jahaan meekly called out, “I know you’re a Mahjarrat, Wahisietel,” he reminded, saying, “you don’t have to stay in the disguise on my account.”

Shaking his head, Wahisietel pointed out, “Mahjarrat are not very welcome in these parts. What if a neighbour happened to nose around my windows, hm? Besides, I’m rather comfortable in my Ali form.”

Soon afterwards, he set down a tray on the table containing two cups of herbal tea and a plate of cream-filled biscuits. Thanking him, Jahaan made for a tasty looking circular one.

“So,” Wahisietel took a sip from the boiling liquid. The word was more of a suggestion for input rather than an intent to begin a discussion of his choosing. Wahisietel knew Jahaan came here for a specific reason to get something off his mind. They didn’t call him ‘Ali the Wise’ for nothing.

Eventually, Jahaan spoke up. “Have you talked to Azzanadra?” he tried not to allow his wince to come through. The fact that Wahisietel hadn’t slammed the door in his face was a promising sign, but he still fretted internally.

Nodding gravely, Wahisietel danced around the matter with delicacy. “I did. He took… a while to calm down.”

“And you’re not mad at me because…?” Jahaan left the hole open for Wahisietel to enlighten him.

With a light chuckle, Wahisietel replied, “I am not as fervent with my beliefs as our beloved Pontifex; he took you disobeying Zaros’ wishes as a personal affront. I, on the other hand, am of sound mind. You’re entitled to whatever path you choose.”

Feeling relief wash over him like a tsunami, Jahaan relaxed back in his chair. “Well, at least that’s one Mahjarrat I haven’t pissed off lately.”

“Speaking of which,” Wahisietel leaned forward in his chair. “Azzanadra told me that Sliske was the one that dealt the killing blow, and that you were there to witness it. He didn’t try to kill you, however?”

“No. He tricked me into leading him straight to Guthix, betrayed me at the last second, then teleported away.”

“That sounds like Sliske.”

Jahaan bit his lip, putting his head in his hands with a frustrated sigh. It would be the perfect time to tell Wahisietel why he was really here, why he’d traveled halfway across the desert to drop in unannounced for more than lovely tea and polite conversation.

It was just… where to start? Without sounding crazy, that was.

“About Sliske…” Jahaan stretched out the creases in his neck, scratching at the back of his head and giving a long, drawn out sigh, delaying the inevitable as he did so. “Back at the Ritual Site, he said he’d been watching me for some time now. The fact that he fooled me by posing as an archeologist to get to Guthix… it got to me. I’ve been feeling rather paranoid ever since. There was… an incident…”

Wahisietel raised an eyebrow in curiosity, but Jahaan did not care to elaborate, instead saying, “I didn’t really take his words seriously before, but after Guthix’s death, and my role in it… I shouldn’t have brushed him off so lightly. I have no idea why he’s following me. I was hoping, as his brother-”

“Half-brother,” Wahisietel was quick to correct.

“ _ Half _ -brother,” Jahaan emphasised. “I was hoping you’d have some insight as to why.”

Taking a long, thoughtful sip of his tea, Wahisietel decided it needed more sugar, and thus added another cube.

“Hmm,” he said as he enjoyed the sweet liquid, his brow well and truly furrowed. “I fear you may have misunderstood my relationship with my half-brother. Familial bonds have not tied us close. I do not know why he would have such a vested interest in you in particular. Had his speech about ‘watching you’ occurred after you became the World Guardian, then that I could understand - he would be interested in your power, your potential - but as it stands… I’m afraid I’m at a loss.”

Shoulders sagging, Jahaan slumped back in his chair, burying his head in his hands. “Terrific.”

“I’m sorry,” Wahisietel weekly apologised, a light chuckle teasing his lips. “I can tell you’re less than impressed with the wisdom I’ve been unable to impart.”

“No, it’s fine,” Jahaan forced himself to smile. “I just… I feel like he’s all around me, you know? It’s haunting.”

“Well, if he’s any consolation, he’s nowhere near Nardah now.”

Jahaan felt relief wash over him. “Really?”

“Really,” Wahisietel assured. “Enakhra and Akthanakos occasionally come near enough that I can feel their presence, but right now, no Mahjarrat are nearby.”

“Enakhra’s probably off fighting for Zamorak…”

It was an off the cuff remark, but boy, did that require some explaining, and another helping of tea and biscuits. Turns out that, while knowing that Saradomin had returned, and assuming that Zamorak was close behind, he didn’t realise they were engaged in conflict at this very second.

Both Jahaan and the Mahjarrat were thankful they were far, FAR away from Lumbridge right about now.

Once the conversation rounded back on track, Jahaan finally asked another one of the burning questions he’d originally come for, “I know the Mahjarrat can sense each other and all, but is there any way I can tell if Sliske’s around? I need something to help this paranoia.”

The look on Wahisietel’s face was not encouraging. “Not particularly. When shapeshifted into a human disguise, Mahjarrat can do everything you humans can, like eat, drink… everything we need to pass off as one of your kind. To your limited human senses, we radiate no magic, either.”

Just as Jahaan was about to give up hope, Wahisietel piped up, “There is one thing… Jahaan, humour me, and touch the space between your eyes.”

Crinkling his brow, it wasn’t until Wahisietel insisted further that Jahaan did as he was told, feeling silly as he did so.

“What do you notice?” Wahisietel inquired, rhetoricism obvious in his tone.

“Uhh… nothing?”

“Exactly. Now, touch the same spot between my eyes.”

Wahisietel leaned forward, and instinctively, Jahaan leaned backwards. After Wahisietel repeated the request, Jahaan just about forced his hand to cooperate, feeling very awkward as he did so. As soon as he made contact, he pulled his hand back with a gasp.

It was near boiling to the touch. “Whoa.”

Placing two fingers between his eyes, Wahisietel explained, “This is where the Mahjarrat’s crystal is embedded in our foreheads. No matter what disguise we undertake, if the skin at this area is thin enough - which, on a human form, it is - you will be able to feel the heat from the crystal.

Granted, the idea of touching everyone he suspected of being a Mahjarrat on the forehead didn’t exactly feel Jahaan with glee, it was certainly better than nothing. “Thanks, Wahisietel. I really appreciate it.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Wahisietel quickly shot up from his chair and hurried over to one of his many bookshelves. “After our last meeting, I set something aside for you, something that might give you an unbiased, third party perspective on my half-brother,” after half a minute’s searching, he pulled out a thin blue-spined book. Blowing dust from the cover, he handed it carefully over to Jahaan, who took it very delicately, aware of how torn and damaged both the spine and cover were.

“How old is this book?” Jahaan couldn’t even make out the writing on the front, it was so faded.

“It’s an original, from the Second Age,” Wahisietel replied.

Aware of the fragility and, with this new information, rarity and subsequent value of the book, Jahaan held it like a newborn, very gently opening it up to the first page. When he did, his eyes began to hurt as they tried to register the symbols on the page. Squinting, he began to say, “Um, Wahisietel…”

Smiling softly, Wahisietel replied, “It is written in the ancient Menaphosi script. I did not think you would be versed in such an outdated language, so I translated the relevant sections of the book. Go to the marked page.”

Seeing the tip of a feather jutting from near the middle of the book, Jahaan turned to it, relieved to see pieces of papyrus tucked inside, all written in the Common Tongue. Removing them, he gently handed the book back to Wahisietel and shuffled the pages into order.

Blinking, he read aloud, “The Book of Sliske?”

Nodding with a disappointed grimace, Wahisietel said, “It’s written by a mercenary of Icthlarin’s called Gram Kobold, who later became a prominent commander in his armies. There are many accounts of the Mahjarrat’s arrival on Gielinor, but his focused almost obsessively on my half-brother. I thought it might be of some interest to you.”

Tucking the papyrus away in his pocket, Jahaan replied, “Thanks, Wahisietel. I owe you one.”

“You owe me nothing,” Wahisietel assured. “After your assistance in dispatching Lucien, it is the least I could do.”

 

After leaving Wahisietel’s humble abode, he made for the nearest inn, wanting to take residence there for the night. While he definitely did not want to put Wahisietel out by asking for a lodging, Jahaan was in no hurry to leave Nardah; the presence of Wahisietel provided a sense of comfort that Jahaan had been lacking these last few days. He felt impervious to Sliske’s stalking here, knowing that his half-brother could sense his presence and make it known.

So after getting a hearty dinner out of the innkeeper and finding a decent enough room to slumber in, Jahaan took to said room and settled down for an early night.

But before he allowed the pull of tiredness to drag him into the realm of sleep, Jahaan pulled out the translation Wahisietel had given him, lit a dim candle, and began to read…

 

_ The Zarosians spilled over our front lines, mixing dust with blood. Their fervour for battle was insatiable. We were ordered to retreat at first light, but we knew we wouldn't make it to dawn. We needed the Kharidian gods to grace the battlefield now; morale was low and the last embers of their civilisation were flickering out. I weighed my coin-bag and wondered if it was time to abandon the life of a mercenary, to steal a ship and leave. _

_ Then, we were blinded momentarily by a burning light, and the ground began to rumble. A wind came rolling across the plains like a tidal wave, drowning out the cries of war. The light spread like a flame burning through parchment, opening a tear in the very fabric of the world. From that yawning rift a small army marched forth, the ground quaking beneath their feet. A figure held the portal open, the head of a jackal atop its shoulders. Icthlarin had returned, and he had brought reinforcements. _

 

_ It was a turning point in the Kharidian-Zarosian war. Icthlarin's warriors crashed into the Zarosian forces. Their commanders were terrifying to behold - mighty sorcerers, whose name sounded foreign to our ears. The army gave them a new name: the 'Stern Judges'. They towered over us by some feet, clad in robes, with a ridge on their foreheads. One in particular made an impression on me, his laugh echoing in my ears and his rictus grin etched into my memory. His name was Sliske, and he appeared and disappeared at will. He was feared by the soldiers and distrusted by his own kind. I felt a kinship with him, despite being awed by his power. Far away, I could make out the Kharidian gods thundering through the enemy, with the Stern Judges at their backs. But Sliske had a different goal, and he moved in other directions. He moved silently; I was barely able to keep track of him as he shifted between shadows. I gave chase, plunging my sword into hapless soldiers in my path. _

_ As I struggled to keep pace with Sliske, I became lost in darkness, the only illumination coming from torches. I fought onwards, and Sliske materialised in a group of enemies. He did not seem to favour his blade; instead, he placed a hand on their armour, and both he and the enemy disappeared. Moments later, Sliske would return, but his opponent would be gone. _

_ Suddenly, I was struck and knocked to the ground, and found myself on my back with a blade at my throat, staring into the wild eyes of a Zarosian scout. Fear washed over me as I heard steel slicing through flesh… but I felt nothing, save a warm trickle of blood on my chest. The body was tossed aside like a doll, and his face peered down at me instead. I shall never forget that grin - like a skull, covered in a veneer of ridged, grey flesh. My eyes locked with Sliske's as he put his finger to his lips. He smiled, and was gone. _

 

_ In the months that followed, Icthlarin led the charge northwards across the River Elid. I watched in awe as the Stern Judges overpowered their foes. Despite my fascination with Sliske, I found him nigh-impossible to track; one minute I would be watching from afar, the next he would vanish. He built an entourage of spectral wights, shimmering with blacks and purples, converting some of the foes he felled into warriors of his own, undead spirits that returned to serve him. _

 

_ We finally reached the mountains, and the forces of Zaros made their stand in a narrow pass. Despite their tactical advantage, we were victorious that day. The dust settled and the blood on our swords boiled in the sun. With the majority of the Kharidian Lands reclaimed, Icthlarin demanded that Sliske release his wights to him, so he could guide them to the Underworld. When Sliske refused, Icthlarin took them by force. With a swipe of his hand, Icthlarin obliterated their own ranks. Sliske simply narrowed his eyes and smiled. With a gesture he was gone, and the two never counted one another as a friend from that day. _

_ It was the last I saw of Sliske. _


	16. Reconstruct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 05: MISSING, PRESUMED DEATH  
> Chapter 2: Empyrean Citadel
> 
> Sliske invites all of Gielinor’s returned gods to his ‘grand ascendency’, claiming godhood. Instead, he uses the platform to pit all the gods against one another in a free-for-all that threatens to tear Gielinor apart. Their incentive? The sole survivor will be awarded what every deity is desperate for - the Stone of Jas…

By this time, most of the innocent civilians of Lumbridge had been evacuated from their homes, sent as refugees either to Al Kharid or into camps bordering Draynor Village, safe behind the battlelines. That left Lumbridge up for grabs, a blood-soaked playground for the gods and their armies.

Sir Owen, the man with a forehead that just didn’t quit, entered the command centre, saluting Sir Tiffy when he approached him. “Sir.”

“How goes it, Sir Owen?” Sir Tiffy enquired, a teacup sealed to his hands indefinitely.

“I have been confiring with a small selection of trusted mages, priests and divination experts in trying to comprehend the peculiar green substance that has appeared in the ground,” he explained, handing over a collection of scribbled notes and diagrams for reference, which Sir Tiffy examined closely, his monocle doing most of the work. “It’s undoubtedly divine energy, from the gods.”

“Hmm, yes, yes. And what do we know of this divine energy, beyond the fact that it is, indeed, divine?”

“Not much so far,” Ariane admitted. Being a respected member of the Legends’ Guild, Ariane had rightfully earned her place at the side of the highest ranking Saradominist knights, a trusted advisor. “The leading theory is that this is leftover energy from Guthix’s death, and said energy can be harnessed by the gods to increase their power, hence Saradomin has ordered us to collect it from craters scattered around Lumbridge and deliver it to him.”

“Unfortunately, it’s not as easy as that,” Sir Owen regretfully informed, “While our armies outnumber the Zamorakians two to one, I am ashamed to report that their fighting prowess outmatches that of most of our lower ranked knights. The numbers disadvantage has not phased them, and we have been unable to capitalise.”

“I see…” Sir Tiffy took a thoughtful, prolonged sip of his tea. “We need to get that energy to Saradomin, but if we send our boys out to do nothing else, they’ll get slaughtered, what? So, I propose this,” he turned to Sir Owen, instructing, “Split your forces into quarters. I want a quarter to gather the energy, a quarter to act as their bodyguards, and the remaining half to tackle the Zamorakians head on. We need to keep that pressure on them, or else ol’ Zamorak will get all the divine energy himself!”

“Yes sir,” Sir Owen saluted, leaving to complete his orders.

Finishing up the last of his tea, Sir Tiffy offered, “Right, hm, anyone fancy a cuppa?”

 

In the end, Jahaan had spent a week in that Nardah inn, and he was becoming restless. It wasn’t exactly a tourist destination, Nardah, and he didn’t want to fork out the money to travel to the next biggest city, Pollnivneach.

Briefly, the thought crossed his mind to travel back to Menaphos. Actually, the thought crossed his mind several times, persistent and unrelenting, especially as more days passed.

But in his heart of hearts, he knew he didn’t want to go back.

He didn’t want to go back to The Golden City, to walk through the imposing gates that towered into the clouds and beyond.

He didn’t want to walk through the district of the merchant’s who flogged their wares tirelessly, from silk to golden lamps, so abrasive to outsiders and yet so dependent on their business. Where the streets were perfectly paved and those that resided their wore beautiful robes of blue and gold, woven by a delicate hand.

He didn’t want to pass by the worker’s district, where the less fortunate found themselves trapped in an endless cycle of poverty, reduced to working the clay mines. It was the only part of the city with an altar.

He didn’t want to look up at the Golden Palace in the Imperial District, the district where only the upper echelons of society could take resident. The architecture was at its finest here, polished marble and brilliantly carved stone constructing every building and statue.

He didn’t want to walk across the city’s main plaza; here, the statues of the four lesser deities of the Pantheon - Het, Apmeken, Crondis and Scabaras - were erected.

He didn’t want to end up back in the Port District where the stench of raw fish blended together with salty sea air would coat your lungs and throat in a mere moment. He didn’t want to see any of the children running across the pathways, gawking at the tremendous ships with mouths hung agape.

It had been just over ten years, and he didn’t want to go back. He’d be going back a changed man, someone alien in comparison, near unrecognisable to those who once knew him. He  _ most certainly _ didn’t want to be recognised by anyone who once knew him. It wouldn’t be a welcomed reunion on any account; a lot would love to see his head detached from his shoulders for all he put them through.

Jahaan didn’t want to relive the memories of everything he was back then.

He especially didn’t want to see his uncle, if the man was even still alive. He’d been a fisherman, earning a decent enough living to provide for the two of them. The fact that he’d been a decent enough man to adopt Jahaan from his mother who was content enough to leave him on a church doorstep, or worse, spoke volumes of his character. And yet, Jahaan never showed enough gratitude, never properly repaid the man for all he’d done.

His uncle wasn’t proud of him. That much was obvious. Why would he be? He was left raise a child that learned to talk back as soon as he could speak, ran with the wrong crowds as soon as he was old enough to sneak away, either staying out all night or being dragged home by the authorities, caught in the middle of some petty crime. He taught himself to fight, and fight well, preferring the lessons life threw at him over the ones he could have learned if he’d ever turned up to his studies.

He left home before his fifteenth birthday, and left Menaphos before he turned twenty-five, having not returned since.

However, Jahaan had changed. He knew he had. From the people that came into his life, like Ozan, and from the travels he embarked on, his character had been shaped for the better. Compassion over callousness, honour and loyalty over selfishness, treating people with respect and kindness over dominating them with fear.

But Jahaan did not want his uncle to know this. He wanted his uncle to live and die thinking that his nephew was scum, that he’d never amount to anything, because that’s what Jahaan felt like he deserved. He didn’t want his uncle’s approval, because he’d never earned it.

That’s why he couldn’t go back to Menaphos.

That’s why, the next day, he headed back to Al Kharid, to be the World Guardian, to help the wounded, to be a good person, or as good as anyone can be in this world.

 

The journey from Nardah on the magic carpet wasn’t much better than the journey going. In fact, he felt significantly worse after landing, having to take a good five minutes sitting at the edge of a sandy pavement before his head stopped spinning. After that, he made for the medical tents.

When Jahaan finally found Ozan, he was perched on the bedside of a young boy, a bandage wrapped around his forehead. His mother was next to them, and they all laughed at something Ozan had said.

Jahaan enjoyed watching the scene; it warmed his heart. So, he patiently waited for his friend to naturally catch his eye. It took a few minutes, but he did so, a wide grin spreading across his face as he excused himself and hurried over to Jahaan. “You’re back!”

“I’m back,” Jahaan confirmed, returning the grin. “Miss me?”

“Like a hole in my heart,” Ozan waved a theatrical hand towards his chest. “How was the desert? Did you end up in Menaphos?”

“No, I decided against it. I went to go see Wahisietel, though.”

“He’s… one of the Mahjarrat, right?”

“Sliske’s half-brother,” Jahaan explained, wincing at the way Ozan reacted to the tainted name. “Don’t worry, he’s nothing like him. He’s not too different from his Ali the Wise persona.”

Ozan was visibly relieved. “That’s good to hear. I’m glad you left when you did - there was a bit of a ruckus not too long after you left.”

The guilt returned to Jahaan in a heartbeat. “Shit. There wasn’t another fight, was there?”

Ozan shook his head. “Fahri calmed them down. They haven’t been back since. I’m hoping by the end of the war they would have forgotten about you.”

“I’m hoping for the same thing,” Jahaan gave a nervous laugh. Then, he rubbed the palms of his hands together and asked, “So, where can I get stuck in?”

 

The war lasted thirteen bloody weeks, casualties of unfathomable proportions amounting on both sides. The two deities were so well-matched in terms of power that it came down to who could gather the most of Guthix’s remaining energy. That ended up being the deciding factor in their war.

Then, one day, the dust would finally settle.

 

A warcry, a scream, a blue and gold trimmed cape dancing behind Saradomin as he persisted, relentlessly, in his attack. The divine energy that was being channeled into him flowed through his veins, coursing like electric-charged blood throughout his body. The stream of energy that pooled out of his hand and towards Zamorak was increasing by the second, and he knew that the battle was swayed firmly in his favour. His armies had kept the black knights at bay and had collected more of Guthix’s divine energy than their Zamorakian counterparts; it wouldn’t be long now before he could end his rival once and for all.

With growing confidence, he sent an extra surge towards the red-winged Mahjarrat. Zamorak kept up the defence, but he was straining, his knees buckling under the weight of Saradomin’s attack.

More of Guthix’s power flowed into his staff, and with a blood-thirsty growl, he swung the staff towards Zamorak and shot a heavy burst of energy at him, causing his foe to fall to his knees, gasping for breath.

It was then that Saradomin began to charge.

Narrowing his eyes into slits, shining with anger and desperation, Zamorak threw everything he had back at his blue-skinned rival, every last ounce of power he could summon.

It was enough to halt Saradomin in his tracks and cause the deity to falter, being pushed backwards and struggling under Zamorak’s might.

But it wasn’t enough.

Saradomin countered the attack, using the energy poured him to Zamorak’s detriment, redirecting it back at the Mahjarrat. A stream of red-tinted magic became washed away in a tidal wave of blue, and when the energy made contact with Zamorak’s chest, the deity was thrown backwards, tumbling to the ground. A limp hand clutched at his own chest as he fought for breath, trying not to slip into the realms of unconsciousness. He knew Saradomin would be charging up another attack, a killing blow, but no matter how hard he tried to will his limbs to move, they simply wouldn’t cooperate; blackness danced around the edges of his mind, daring to take over completely.

In a flash, the pink-eyed woman teleported beside her fallen master, pulling him upright, terrified and helpless as he lulled forwards, coughing up blood and bile.

Saradomin’s staff glowed, and in her peripheral vision, she saw this.

Knowing there was no alternative, that her master would die if she did not interfere, she raised a hand to the skies and teleported the two of them away to safety, just as Saradomin made a move to strike.

Clenching his fists, Saradomin roared in frustration, cursing in a tongue long-since abandoned, but the scream of “COWARD” could be heard across all of Lumbridge and beyond.

Once he calmed himself down, Saradomin turned to what was left of his armies, surveyed all that remained of Lumbridge, and raised his staff to the skies, crying out, “Victory is ours!” before teleporting away, leaving rubble, wounded and dead in his wake.

As soon as it had begun, the battle was over.

Saradomin had won, and Fahri and Jahaan got very drunk on Ozan’s dime that night.

 

Nobody ever really thinks too much about the aftermath of a war, what happens to the regular people whose lives have been turned upside down for a conflict that wasn’t theirs.

The dairy maid whose livestock were slaughtered in the crossfire, her prized dairy cow being her prime source of income, now buried among the rubble. The master farmer to the north, whose entire farm was trampled by the careless foot of a callous deity who cared little for his livelihood. The entire townsworth of people uprooted by the chaos, now trying to locate their houses among the charred remains of Lumbridge. Merchants who had stores in the town now had nowhere to sell, and no-one to sell too. After all, who was interested in a new pickaxe when you don’t even have a roof over your head?

The displaced populous were left to shelter in makeshift camps, soldiers handing out rations and allocating tents. Some remained Al Kharid, allowed refugee status; the kind folk of the city even offered spare rooms to homeless families, if they had room to spare.

Then there was the case of the injured; people don’t stop dying after the battle stops. Lingering injuries may take bad ways, old wounds can reopen if not treated properly, and some people never wake up from comas they’d fallen into.

The rebuilding effort started with the soldiers and knights of Saradomin’s forces - you can say that about them, they didn’t abandon the town like the Zamorakians did. Soon after, men and women who were fortunate enough to survive the war and leave unscathed volunteered to help. Granted, as soon as some of the less injured became mobile, they joined in too. It became quite a well-oiled machine, coordinated by the Duke and some of the higher tiered Saradominist soldiers. Carpenters and construction workers from across Gielinor were contracted by the Duke to aid in the rebuilding, bringing with them supplies and tools. It certainly strained the town’s money purse, but it was necessary.

The first priority was to clear away the rubble, shaping an outline of what the town was before the war, with broken cobbles forming paths that led to half-destroyed buildings. The task was beyond a facing, but there was hope.

Five weeks had passed, and morale was high on the Lumbridge side of the fence. Some people were even able to return to their homes. At least, those on the outskirts… the centre of the town was another matter entirely.

 

Jahaan and Ozan had remained in Al Kharid after the battle had ceased in order to aid the wounded and help them recover enough to return to Lumbridge, or to find them shelter somewhere in the desert city. The amount of injured soldiers they had taken in stretched their efforts to full capacity, but they just about managed.

It was wrong, and he knew it, but Jahaan couldn’t help feel a twinge of pride at his efforts in the war. It was a change, managing to help people without violence, without having to kill in the process. Ozan, too, had become a completely different man. The children had taken to naming him ‘Ozzy’, and wouldn’t let him go more than a few hours before whining for his attention, either to play little games or to be told a story. Ozan LOVED telling stories, and the children lapped it up like cats with tuna.

Now, Jahaan wasn’t overly fond of children, but even he thought it was borderline adorable.

 

Jahaan had just finished re-wrapping the wound of a white knight and left to go and check up on the Temple Knight four beds down who had taken an arrow to the knee, but when he heard the loud echo of his rumbling stomach, he remembered that he hadn’t eaten in about eighteen hours.

It had been a LONG night. They were always long nights.

Still, Jahaan thought he could justify taking just five or ten minutes to grab a kebab, maybe hydrate a little, before getting back into it all.

_ Best laid plans and all... _

He was making his way towards the war hospital entrance when someone ran full pelt into his back, sending Jahaan stumbling forwards, almost tripping over his own feet in the process. Instinctively, Jahaan assumed he was being attacked, and thus went for his dagger. However, when he got a good look at who had crashed into him, his fighting instinct relaxed into confusion.

“Gypsy Aris?”

The woman had heavy black circles around her eyes, dark makeup contrasting violently with her pure white hair, pinned back by a violet headband. Age was not her enemy, nor her friend, as while she had wrinkles shaping heer features, her eyes were youthful, full of life and energy, but hidden within them were secrets and histories mere mortals were ignorant to.

These eyes shot up at Jahaan, wild, like a frightened deer. “It’s you! Thank Guthix I am not too late…”

Despite making a living as a fortune teller, Gypsy Aris never could quite handle the concept of being on time. Then again, it was this foible that saved her from being trapped under the Culinaromancer’s spell, for she arrived late to the meeting that he gate-crashed in his attempt to eliminate the Secret Council of Gielinor on his way to world domination.

Sound like a lot to take in? Jahaan had to deal with the fall-out, sending him halfway across the world in order to find each council member’s favourite recipe in order to free them from the trance they were stuck in.

Sometimes adventurers really do get the craziest of assignments.

This was his last encounter of the gypsy; he hadn’t seen her since, for her tent was located in the middle of Varrock Square, and Jahaan would rather eat his own toenails then travel to Varrock.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, chuckling lightly at her flustered state. “The battle’s over.”

“I had a vision!” she proclaimed, loud enough to get some shady looks from passersby. In light of this, he ushered her towards an unoccupied tent as she babbled, “It was you! But you move, by the gods you move so much, I feared you would not be here, but here you are! I have to tell you, it’s important.”

“Okay, calm down, calm down,” Jahaan tried to ease her, motioning for her to sit on the edge of a bed, but she refused.

“We have no time, World Guardian,” she hurriedly explained, “Oh yes, I know you’re the World Guardian. Guthix bestowed you a great honour, a blessing and a curse, as it will all come down to you, Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut. It is how it has always been, but will change. You have always been written, but now revealed. But ah, the souls, they will not rise! It is then your fate will be sealed, the path you can’t ever walk away from. Are you ready to do your duty, World Guardian?”

Jahaan didn’t do a great job of hiding his perplexion.  _ What on Gielinor is she talking about? Why can’t these mystic types ever speak coherently? _

For some reason, in all her power and wisdom, Gypsy Aris didn’t register Jahaan’s confusion, and seemed to be waiting anxiously for an answer.

Hesitantly, Jahaan ventured, “Y-Yes…?”

Gypsy Aris exhaled in relief so deeply that it felt like she was breathing out all her life essence at once, her enter body falling forwards. She stopped moving for a few seconds, and Jahaan genuinely wondered if she’d ACTUALLY somehow let go of her life essence, just deciding to die there and then.

But just as he went to shake her, she bolted back to life, rummaging through her pockets and practically throwing a handful of rune stones at Jahaan. Startled, he scrambled not to let go of them, starting to ask, “What are these f-”

“When you leave here, they will find you. These mortals do not forget,” the word ‘explained’ was tentative at best, but Gypsy Aris tried to convey  _ something  _ to Jahaan. “They will trap you, and you must use these to flee. When the time comes, you will know. Let the magic take you. Then HE will find you, for the souls will not rise, and death will cease to be. You must help him.”

She took Jahaan’s hands in hers, clutching onto them desperately, her eyes burning into his. “When the world speaks, you must listen.”

Suddenly, she released him, straightening up her headband as she said, “I must leave. Remember your purpose, Jahaan.”

And with that, she disappeared in a twirl of golden energy.

Jahaan slumped down onto the bed next to him, his mouth still hung agape as it hand been since she’d started talking. He tried to replay the conversation in his head, but in slow motion, attempting to decipher at least some of what she was going on about.

While Gypsy Aris was certainly a character, unfortunately she was almost always onto something, and her visions rarely lied. She seemed panicked, desperate, and it had something to do with him.

_ How did she know Guthix’s last words? I never told them to anyone… _

That was only one of the many mysteries she had teased in her babbling. Delicately, he toyed with the rune stones in his palms - a law and water rune. Law runes were typically used for teleportation spells, and if water runes were added to them, that would transport him to Ardougne.

_ Why Ardougne? _ He puzzled, the words and phrases of the gypsy’s monologue rattling around his aching head. Tucking the runes away in his pocket, he continued to make his way towards Ali the Kebab Seller, hoping that everything would miraculously make sense on a full stomach.


	17. Undying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 05: MISSING, PRESUMED DEATH  
> Chapter 1: Undying
> 
> Sliske invites all of Gielinor’s returned gods to his ‘grand ascendency’, claiming godhood. Instead, he uses the platform to pit all the gods against one another in a free-for-all that threatens to tear Gielinor apart. Their incentive? The sole survivor will be awarded what every deity is desperate for - the Stone of Jas…

It was a good three weeks before things calmed down in the war hospital enough that Ozan and Jahaan were dismissed from their duties. They’d been immersed in such a chaotic environment for so long that when they suddenly stopped it was a shock to the system, and both men felt rather displaced. Since Ozan decided to go and reunite with Ariane and Coal - who he had been separated from since the war began - Jahaan thought to tag along and see if he could assist in any of the rebuilding of Lumbridge before he settled upon what to do next. That was the issue after having left the Imperial Guard - finding purpose in day-to-day life. Up until now, life had done a pretty good job of throwing him into adventure, for better or for worse. Being directionless wasn’t his strong suit.

_ I’ve always wanted to see Prifddinas for myself,  _ Jahaan toyed with the idea in his mind.  _ Though it’s the other side of the world. I can’t walk it. Fuck that noise. I’d need a teleport. Maybe Ariane could get me close… _

 

The two men walked through the remains of Lumbridge, pleased to see just how well the rebuilding effort was going. A lot of structures had four walls now, some of them even a sturdy looking roof. They hadn’t witnessed the destruction at the hands of the gods themselves, but if it was anything like the stories the wounded had told them, then the progress they've made in rebuilding this much was incredible.

After getting some directions from a knight, they were told Ariane would likely be found in or around the mill at the northern end of the town where the Saradominist camp had set up a base of operations. As they approached, Ozan saw Ariane alternating between hand-feeding the chickens some grain in the neighbouring field and ushering Coal away from eating the chickens whole. His face broke into a picture of happiness.

“I’m going to see Sir Tiffy,” Jahaan gave his friend a pat on his back, but Ozan was too captivated to hear him or notice the gesture. “I’ll catch up to you later.”

“Hm, what?” Ozan drawled, dreamily. “Oh, right. Catch you later.”

With that, he made for the field, and Jahaan watched him go, feeling like he was watching a romantic play in action, overdosing on the sappiness of it all. After forcing himself to stop grinning like an idiot at the sight, he made for the mill entrance.

A white knight stopped him, asking for his credentials. After giving him his name, the knight retreated inside, and moments later, a cheery old voice called out, “Come in, my boy!”

A warm grin spread across Jahaan’s face. Sir Tiffy’s voice never failed to cheer him up.

The mill seemed a lot bigger on the inside than it did outside, fitting desks, armour stands and enough of Saradomin’s top knights with room to spare. When he caught Sir Tiffy’s eye, he bowed in greeting.

“Forget that son, come here!” Sir Tiffy motioned him in for a hug. Knowing it would be rude to refuse, Jahaan forfeited his personal space long enough to allow the old knight to give him a tight squeeze, one with the amount of enthusiasm only reserved for drunk people. It was made worse by the fact the knight was wearing armour.

Finally releasing the man he was suffocating, Sir Tiffy motioned for Jahaan to sit opposite him and exclaimed, “I haven’t seen you in so long, lad! Would you like a cup of tea?”

Politely, Jahaan declined. Sir Tiffy ordered one for himself before asking, “How’s Al Kharid? It was a shame you didn’t stay and fight - we could have done with your help - but I understand, my boy.”

“It was nice to be back in the desert,” Jahaan replied, dancing past the whole ‘abandoning Saradomin’ debate that Sir Owen had brought up when he first left. “Congratulations on your victory.”

“Ah, it was marvelous! Such an honour to fight under the lord himself, what?” Sir Tiffy took the piping hot cup of tea and sipped it delicately.

“Sir, the priest has an issue with the placement of his new church,” one of the knights barged into mil, sleepless eyes that told the world he’d ‘had it up to here’ with everyone and everything. “He says that the river is too-”

That was when his eyes caught Jahaan’s, and in a flash, his sword was drawn. Instinctively, Jahaan shot up from his chair and drew his own, backing himself up into a wall. Like dominos, other knights drew their swords and pointed them at Jahaan.

_ Oh shit. He remembered. _

Sir Tiffy shot up from behind his desk. “What is the meaning of this here, what?”

“It’s him,” the knight spat. “The one that killed Sir Tenly at the Al Kharid border!”

Sir Tiffy looked heartbroken, sorrowful eyes resting upon a panic-stricken Jahaan who looked like a cornered animal. “Is it true, lad?”

“It… it happened so fast!” Jahaan felt the weight of disapproval and anger directed at him, heavier than any armour. It broke his own heart, the thought of disappointing one of his heroes. “I didn’t mean to. I just-... he just-...”

His defence was as flimsy as papyrus, and worth as much too.

“Jahaan, I didn’t take you for a… for a murderer,” Sir Tiffy choked. “When I heard about the incident, never in a lifetime would I have thought it’d be you to murder one of my boys…”

“I’m not a murderer!” Jahaan protested, but it was in vain. He knew it was too late for him.

With a long, painful sigh, Sir Tiffy announced, “I have no choice. Until this here matter is cleared up, I am arresting you in the name of Saradomin. Put down your sword, lad.”

_ Fuck that. _

Jahaan pressed himself backwards even further, the wall greeting him like an unwelcome house guest. Seeing how he was outnumbered, without armour and in the middle of Saradominist territory, he didn’t fancy his chances in a sword fight. Instead, he subtly reached into his pocket and clasped his hand around the runes Gypsy Aris had given him all that time ago, thanking the gods he’d thought to keep ahold of them.

Runes came with certain charges infused into them; for this particular spell Gypsy Aris wanted him to use, he needed two of each element, so two charges were placed into the runes. The tiny stones felt warm in his palms, buzzing with hidden energy.

Taking a deep, measured breath, he tried to calm himself and focus on the centre of East Ardougne's market square. He tried to picture all the stalls, the guards patrolling the premise, the people rushing about the place, desperate for a deal. If he had a clear enough mind and focused correctly, he should be whisked away and planted in the market square. At least, that’s what he thought. The wizards that tried to teach him teleportation didn’t really go into much detail, and honestly, he had no idea how or why it worked. So many people use it as an effective means of transportation, but magic really wasn’t Jahaan’s cup of tea. He felt more comfortable with something tangible in his hands, and while the rune stones were technically tangible, the energy and magic they exuded was far from it.

Though he knew it wasn’t ideal, and he’d be making an enemy of just about Saradominist knight for doing so, Jahaan decided upon ‘fuck it’, and tried to channel the spell.

Exhaling slowly, Jahaan concentrated so hard, focused so much on trying to block out the chaos surrounding him, until eventually he was whisked away, furious knights shouting at him in his wake.

 

When he opened his eyes, many people were standing over him, a lot of them laughing. He felt something very uncomfortable beneath him, jagged and sharp, but right next to it was something undeniably soft and squishy. When he managed to examine his hand, he noticed it was covered in jam.

“GER OFF ME STALL!” came a loud, bellowing voice, followed by rough hands forcing him to his feet. He tried to gather his bearings, quickly trying to shake off the wave of nausea that always accompanied his teleportation attempts.

_ Well, at least I made it to the market... _

Behind him was the collapsed remains of the cake stall he’d landed on, accompanied by the very cross looking stall owner. Guards were enclosing on him, looking equally cross.

He briefly opened his mouth to try and explain himself, then thought better of it, instead deciding to follow the philosophy that had served him vaguely well for the last couple of hours:

_ Fuck it. _

With that, he took off running, bolting out of the market square and through the smaller streets of the outskirts of East Ardougne, not even looking back to see how many guards were on his tail. Oh, he was definitely being pursued - he could hear their footsteps and panting behind him - but Jahaan had the stamina advantage, and after enough ducking weaving between side streets, he lost the guards.

Straightening himself out, Jahaan took a long gulp of water from his waterskin, caught his breath, and tried to look as non-suspicious as possible as he left through the city gates.

_ Well, that didn’t go as well as I’d hoped, _ Jahaan huffed, not dawdling around the city’s walls for more than a moment’s breath. Instead, he kept running north, wanting to put as much distance between angry guards and himself as possible.

Once he was sure he wasn’t being pursued any longer, Jahaan all but collapsed on the grass, doubled over and fighting for breath.  _ Damn, I need to work on my cardio… _

Suddenly Gypsy Aris’ vision seemed to make a lot more sense.  _ How did she know? _ Jahaan wondered,  _ And why couldn’t she have foreseen a destiny with less being chased by angry men with swords? _

Another thought popped into his head - Ozan. Word would have gotten around by now, so hopefully he’d at least know he was safe, but Jahaan decided to send a letter next time he saw Postie Pete roaming around, just in case.

Picking himself off the could and wiping dry the grass stains he’d accrued, Jahaan examined his surroundings. Well, what little there were.

Trees. Trees as far as the eye can see. The rough outline of a structure to the north-east Jahaan deduced would be the Legends’ Guild, and thus knew to stay far away from that. Seeing as the nearest civilisation (that wasn’t Ardougne) was Seers’ Village, he decided to make his way back up there, hoping they’d allow him back in the pub after the ruckus he created last time, and figure out what to do after a few drinks and decent meal inside him.

So, using the sun as a compass, he started walking.

And walking, and walking.

_ A lot of this adventuring lark really is nothing but walking. _

Then, breaking him out of his daydream-like trance he’d found himself in as he lumbered onwards, a weak voice called out from behind him, “Kind sir, please wait!” 

When Jahaan turned to the west, the origin of the cry, he saw a bloodstained monk stumbling towards him. “Please... Oh great Saradomin please help me!”

It wasn’t every day you saw a monk in such a frenzy; Jahaan’s concern peaked, and before he knew it, he was trailing after the monk, who ushered him to follow. “What's going on?”

It didn’t take long for them to reach what he was being led to - three bodies, bloodstained and lifeless, cloaked in monk’s robes. But this wasn’t like any other corpse he’d ever seen. No, these ones had a pool of grey mist floating above them, twisting and turning, weaving and bending in place. And the awful wailing they made… it sent chills down Jahaan’s spine. It looked like their souls were detached from their bodies.

“I-It all happened so fast,” the monk quavered, “Please protect me. Please! Oh no - what if they come back?!”

“It's okay, I can help you,” Jahaan softly reassured, asking, “Try to calm down. Can you tell me your name?”

“Samuel. B-Brother Samuel,” the monk introduced, his breathing slightly more collected now. “Someone... m-murdered my brothers. Th-they left me alive. Why didn't they take me and not them?”

Jahaan studied the corpses, his eyes unable to draw away from the tortured souls floating above them. “Something’s wrong with them. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“I-It only happened after their murder, I-I don't think it was the killer that caused it. They just look so tormented, like their souls cannot pass onto the afterlife…”

_ The souls will not rise…  _ Jahaan remembered the haunting words of Gypsy Aris, causing him to visibly shudder.

Not noticing this, a whimpering Brother Samuel continued, “I keep racking my brains, but it's all a blur. Damn my old age - I can't remember anything of the attacker!”

This desperately disheartened Jahaan. “Really,  _ nothing _ ?”

“I-I only saw the attacker flee in darkness, like the light had been sucked from the area! But I did not get a good look at them. P-Please, I beg of you... help me search for evidence so we can find who killed my brothers and bring them to justice.”

“Of course I’ll help you,” Jahaan assured. But then, his mind darted back to the last time some out of the blue stranger requested his assistance. Fortunately, he remembered Wahisietel’s advice, and with all the conviction he could muster, he declared, “Okay, I’ll help you, but on one condition. You have to let me touch your forehead.”

Unsurprisingly, this didn’t go down too well with the monk. “Come again?”

“I want to touch your forehead.”

“But… but why?”

“You don’t get to ask questions,” Jahaan maintained, standing firm. “It’s that or I walk.”

“...”

“...”

“O-Okay, fine!” Brother Samuel caved, awkwardly leaning forward. Like it was the most natural thing in the world - despite feeling desperately embarrassed internally - Jahaan reached out and placed two fingers between the man’s eyes, sighing with relief when he noted the normal temperature.

“Thank you,” Jahaan straightened his shoulders, trying to recollect his dignity and forget that ever happened. “Where should we start?”

Brother Samuel suggested, “I think it would be best to start by searching for clues that point to the killer. You're bound to find something in the surrounding area. Y-you should check th-the... bodies, too. I need a moment to collect my thoughts…”

Brother Samuel walked away, giving Jahaan room enough to examine the crime scene unhindered by the monk’s quivering. The poor man looked ghastly.  _ Perhaps it was his first corpse... _

 

As Jahaan investigated the first corpse, he noted that the monk had been impaled with several small crystals. His arms were pale, like all the blood had drained from them, and there were scrapes on his knees, as if he was kneeling before being killed.

There was a faint murmuring coming from the floating essence above the body. Leaning in closely, Jahaan could hear the tortured words,  _ “Bound… shackled… free me... mercy! Oh Saradomin, mercy…” _

Another slaughtered monk had arms that were splattered with blood, but didn’t seem to be wounded. Instead, his heart had been pierced by a sharp blade with pinpoint accuracy.

With this soul, Jahaan could only make out the words ‘Saradomin’ and ‘light’ amidst the garbled mumbling.

The last corpse had wrists and hands covered in blood, like he was desperately trying to hold his wound closed. There was only one clean wound to his heart - the work of a skilled assassin.

This soul cried out louder than the others, though its words were broken up by agonised wails.  _ “It was… the masked face… trapped me… release me, Saradomin…” _

Masked face? This did not bring joy to Jahaan’s heart; instead, a weighted sinking feeling engulfed him. Still, he had more of the crime scene to investigate.

The nearby tree caught his eye next, and arrow protruding from the split bark. Pulling it out, Jahaan examined in closely, noting its fine craftsmanship and sharp crystal tip unlike any he’d ever handled before. Then, in his peripheral vision, a shiny silver ring glimmered in the sunlight. When Jahaan picked it up, he saw it was engraved with a dialect he could not decipher, but recognised as elven.

 

Making his way back to Brother Samuel, who was caught in the middle of hurried prayers, sorrowful eyes staring into the sky, Jahaan called out, “Brother Samuel, I’ve had a look around. Check this out.”

Handing over the ring and arrow, Brother Samuel squinted, examining the two very closely, like he was studying a museum artifact. “Strange. Most peculiar. It could have been an elf who did this, as the ring and arrow seem to be elven craft. I just can't remember - it was all over so quickly…”

“It must be horrible, but try to focus,” Jahaan softly encouraged.

“I'm sorry. I have seen much in my many years, but I never thought to stare evil in the face as I have done today. Let me think. My only knowledge of the elves comes from tales and legends I was told as a child. I vaguely remember the tale of their goddess, Seren. She was ridden with guilt, and shattered herself into thousands of crystals to always be with her followers. But she was supposed to believe the different races could live in peace. Why would an elf want to do this to us?”

Jahaan shook his head. “It doesn’t make much sense…” he bit his tongue, deliberating internally whether to share the ‘masked face’ observation with Brother Samuel.  _ It could have just been a coincidence, a throwaway remark from a tortured soul... _

Tearing up, Brother Samuel exclaimed, “I just want to know why! Why would someone do something so horrific to innocent monks? We’re pacifists! And their souls… why can’t they leave their bodies? Why can’t they be liberated into Saradomin’s embrace?”

_ “I believe I may be of some help, mortals…” _

The voice came from all around them, and simultaneously nowhere at all. But there was something about the voice that Jahaan recognised, and his heart warmed at the comforting familiarity in amongst all of this horror. “Icthlarin, is that you?”

_ “Yes, it is I. Do not be alarmed. My arrival on the surface world is imminent…” _

Brother Samuel didn’t seem to calm down, especially since the ground started rumbling.

A crack in the ground appeared beside them, growing rapidly, tearing the earth apart. From it, glorious white light shone from the depths, so bright that Brother Samuel land Jahaan had to cover their eyes. Once the light subsided and the earth had healed, the two uncovered their eyes and saw that Icthlarin had arrived.

The canine deity stood at just under six feet tall, muscled and imposing, with sharp teeth that could cut through steel. Majestic turquoise and golden robes were draped over his shoulders and around his waist, light and infrequent enough to be suited to the desert climate. His shins and wrists were armoured in guards of the same colour, and atop his head was a two-pronged crown that couldn’t help but look like large ears. In his left hand was a long staff with what seemed to be a goblet atop; from it, green energy seeped constantly into the air.

With a warm smile, Jahaan cheered, “It’s good to see you again, Icthlarin. How’s Amascut? Any news?”

Sighing heavily, Icthlarin regretfully informed, “I am afraid my sister’s madness has not subsided. She still summons creatures to devour the souls that I strive to protect. But I have not lost hope, my friend. Neither should you.”

“Excuse me, who are you?” Brother Samuel piped up, his voice cracking slightly.

Turning to Brother Samuel, Icthlarin addressed, “Forgive my rudeness, mortal. I have yet to properly introduce myself. My name is Icthlarin, God of the Underworld.”

Now, Brother Samuel’s fear transitioned swiftly into confusion. “Umm… no, not ringing any bells.”

“Ic...Icthlarin… I guide souls to the Underworld...? I am part of the Menaphite Pantheon...?”

Brother Samuel shook his head. “No, nothing I’m afraid. Are you a new god or something?”

Icthlarin’s embarrassment turned to a mild form of indignation, though he did well to compose himself. “No, I am not a ‘new god’. I was on this planet long before your deity!”

“Then how come I’ve never heard of you?”

“I-!” clenching his first, Icthlarin took a long, deep breath, trying to shuffle off the urge to shout the priest down. “We do not have time for this. World Guardian,” he turned to Jahaan. “I had sensed many dead here, souls that passed at the hands of another.”

“Yeah, but why are they like…  _ this? _ ” Jahaan emphasised, pointing to a tortured soul, struggling to shuffle off its mortal coil.

“That I can shed some light to,” the deity informed, “The reaper of souls, whom you know as ‘Death’, has gone missing. Without his scythe, there is nothing to sever the tie between souls and their physical shells. Their souls are in limbo, shackled to these lifeless husks. I have travelled across all of Gielinor bearing witness to the same thing. I cannot help them all.”

Gasping, Brother Samuel cried, “That’s awful! Is everyone who dies trapped now?”

“Only on the realm of Gielinor. Other realms are not governed by the same principles of mortality. Death does have fail safes in place, helpers that are able to use shards from his scythe to release souls, but they are unable to keep pace with the flow of souls. I am assisting by transporting the deceased to them. But I am tired, mortal - there is much that needs my attention. I have never known Death to neglect his duties - not once in thousands of years. There is something more sinister afoot.”

“Then we need to find Death,” Jahaan asserted. With a heavy sigh, he decided to confess his suspicions to the jackal-headed deity. “I’ve an idea as to who might be behind these killings and, by extent, Death’s disappearance.”

“Who, my friend?”

Jahaan’s shoulders sagged; wincing, he said, “I believe you’re familiar with the Mahjarrat Sliske?”

“Sliske…” Icthlarin shuddered at the name. “I am all-too familiar with that particular rapscallion. This business of torturing souls does seem to fit his modus operandi.”

“That, and one of the trapped souls mentioned a ‘masked face’. Brother Samuel also said something about the attacker’s way of teleporting, where the spell absorbed light instead of emitting it, like the spellcaster-”

“...was escaping to a darker rift or dimension,” Icthlarin finished, his heart heavy.

“Pardon me,” Brother Samuel cleared his throat. “Who is this Sliske character?”

“Sliske is a Zarosian Mahjarrat,” Icthlarin solemnly explained, “He and I have a tumultuous history. Once he fought with his brethren in my armies. Then, he betrayed me and turned the Mahjarrat’s allegiance to Zaros. I wonder if he is trying to garner my attention by taking Death captive?”

“If it is indeed Sliske, then it looks like he’s trying to pit the gods against one another,” Jahaan gravely added. “Seems like Sliske’s trying to make it look like elves butchered these Saradominist monks. The crystal tip arrows are a dead giveaway to Seren’s followers.”

“As I pointed out earlier,” Brother Samuel piped up, “Seren and Saradomin have always had a peaceful relationship. There would be no reason for her followers to perform such a heinous act.”

“I agree,” Icthlarin concurred, gripping tighter onto his powerful staff. “Something eludes us still. But what is clear is that he is setting in motion dangerous events, and we cannot let him continue. I would like to ask for your help, Jahaan. You have seen the evil at work here, and have first-hand experience in dealing with Sliske.”

Humbly, Jahaan replied, “Of course. I’ll do whatever I can.”

“Thank you, my friend. Our highest priority is- wait... something is wrong.”

Icthlarin sniffed the air, his body going tense and rigid. “Prepare yourself, Jahaan. I sense the approach of the undead.”

 

Beneath them, the ground began to shiver and shake, eventually breaking away all together as six skeletons with flesh barely clutching onto their limbs arose from the dirt.

Drawing his two short swords, Jahaan crouched into a fighting stance. Beside him, Icthlarin’s staff glowed as he did the same. He made a motion with his hand, and then seemed very perplexed afterwards. Meanwhile, Brother Samuel cowered behind them.

Fortunately, the skeletons were just as brittle as they looked; Jahaan charged forward and slashed straight through the torso of one without breaking a sweat. Icthlarin’s staff made short work of another two, while Jahaan took out one with a decapitating strike.

The last two were felled with ease, and from the remains of one of them, a tiny box materialised.

Sheathing his weapon, a curious Jahaan picked up the box from in amongst the pile of bones. “Huh…” was all he said. It didn’t seem to have a keyhole, and when he tried to prise the lid open, it wouldn’t budge.

“Well fought, mortal,” Icthlarin praised, his staff returning to its regular state. “I am not accustomed to the undead withstanding my power.”

“Why  _ did  _ they withstand it?”

“Ordinarily I would dispatch tens of wights with a wave of my hand, but these… it seemed almost as though they were attuned to my power. Like something was protecting them,” his eye then caught the box Jahaan was holding. “What is that in your hand?”

As soon as he said that, murky grey smoke began to seep from the mysterious box, and in his shock, Jahaan dropped the box to the ground, stepping back in surprise. “Is it meant to do that?”

Gradually, the smoke began to take the shape of a mask, a typical theatre style accessory with a menacing grin plastered onto it. “Boo! Bet you didn’t see this coming.”

Icthlarin regarded to mask with apprehension. “What in the Underworld are you, creature?”

“For starters, I am no creature. I’m just a little message - or, rather, an invitation - from my master. You have the honour of being invited to the greatest event in all six ages!”

“Speak clearly, mask,” Icthlarin demanded. “Who is your master? What event do you speak of?”

“Why, the grand ascension of Sliske, of course!” the mask exclaimed, his voice full of wicked laughter.

Jahaan crinkled his brow. “Sliske’s ascension?”

Icthlarin’s shoulders sagged. “In light of recent events, the bastard must now believe he is worthy of godhood. But the treacherous snake must be mad to think I’d respond to such an invitation…” the words caught in his throat like bile.

The Mask sighed. “Poor Icthlarin. So easily frustrated by a talking box. My master believed you might react this way, but in light of a certain someone’s disappearance, we thought you might be amenable to accepting our invitation...”

Icthlarin’s eyes grew wide. “You would have the audacity to kidnap Death himself?!”

“Calm down Icky. All you need to do to save your precious Death is open this box, and you will be transported to the Empyrean Citadel. Oh, and bring the World Guardian with you. I have a feeling he won’t want to miss this either. Now, come along. My master won’t wait forever…”

With that, the smoke dissipated, and the box returned to its mundane appearance.

“The situation is apparent now,” Icthlarin’s tone was grave. “Sliske's plan is as evil and manipulative as I have come to expect from him. With Death gone, Sliske knew I would come to the surface world to deal with the trapped souls. After killing the people you see here, he predicted my arrival and left his wights to ambush me. But they were just a show of his power. The real purpose was to deliver his invitation. Kidnapping Death leaves me no choice but to attend his ascension.”

Jahaan added, “I bet he’s hatching similar schemes to force the other gods into attendance.”

“Then the situation is more dire than I first believed. To what end, I do not know. But I must go to the Citadel and release Death. Still, I cannot bring myself to trust this box.”

“If there’s one thing you can trust, it’s that you can’t trust Sliske,” Jahaan parroted Wahisietel’s wise words from the Ritual Site, biting the inside of his cheek.

“E-Excuse me…” Brother Samuel meekly raised his hand, hunched over slightly. “B-But if you do not get Death to return, does that mean my brothers will never be free?”

“Your brothers will be free,” Icthlarin assured. “I will transport them to Death’s Mansion myself. Death’s helpers are there. They will release the trapped souls from their bodies. However, if we do not find and release Death from his captor, things will never go back to normal.”

With a wave of his arm, and a low bow of his head, Icthlarin caused the bodies faded away.

Straightening his stance, Icthlarin declared. “I must go to the Citadel. It appears Sliske requests your company as well. Will you attend alongside me, World Guardian? I need an ally, and am not sure who, or what, I shall encounter upon my arrival.”

Jahaan’s stern expression allowed a wry smile to creep through. “For you? Wouldn’t miss it.”

Picking up the box again, Jahaan and Icthlarin took a good few strides away from Brother Samuel - just in case he was caught in the teleportation spell due to his close proximity - and this time, Jahaan managed to open the lid. Light attacked them, rendering their vision blank and white, but they could feel movement. Unsteady, directionless movement, but movement nonetheless.

When Jahaan managed to open his eyes, he was inside the Empyrean Citadel.


	18. Empyrean Citadel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 05: MISSING, PRESUMED DEATH  
> Chapter 2: Empyrean Citadel
> 
> Sliske invites all of Gielinor’s returned gods to his ‘grand ascendency’, claiming godhood. Instead, he uses the platform to pit all the gods against one another in a free-for-all that threatens to tear Gielinor apart. Their incentive? The sole survivor will be awarded what every deity is desperate for - the Stone of Jas…

K'ril Tsutsaroth, the demon servant of Zamorak, stood behind two of the Zamorakian Mahjarrat, Enakhra and Zemouregal. To their left, two uncomfortable avianse glared at the intruders to their citadel - after all, the Empyrean Citadel was once Armadyl’s seat of power on Gielinor. On the other side of the room, General Graardor looked irritated at the whole affair and one wrong glance away from crushing some skulls. Meanwhile, Commander Zilyana and the elf Ilfeen were locked in a tense argument. Guarding the entrance to the throne room were the six Barrows Brothers, unmoving and unblinking.

“This place is a powder keg…” Jahaan muttered to Icthlarin, taking note of just how many people here wished to see his head roll.

Nodding, Icthlarin stated, “We mustn’t waste time. Let us enter the throne room.”

Jahaan started to follow him, but then saw two figures out of the corner of his eye, loitering at the far end of the room. “Ah, actually, I have to deal with something first. I’ll meet you in there.”

Accepting this, Icthlarin approached one of the Brothers. Registering him, the six of them stepped aside, and the large throne room doors creaked upon, allowing Icthlarin passage.

Zemouregal seemed to take umbrage to this. “Now Icthlarin’s allowed in?! I’ve had enough of this - get out of my way!”

Zemouregal attempted to force his way past Guthan, but as soon as he took a forceful stride forwards, he was thrown halfway across the room. Not by Guthan, mind you. More like he was repelled by the shadows themselves, an energy force field that created a solid wall of ‘fuck you’.

A strange laugh echoed across the chamber.  _ “HAHA! Access: DENIED!” _

Picking himself off the floor, embarrassed and seething, Zemouregal shouted, “Enough of this madness! Let me in, Sliske!”

While Jahaan managed to contain his laughter, albeit barely, the rest of the room erupted into a vast range of quaint giggles to roaring, bellowing laughter. If Mahjarrat could blush, Zemouregal would have turned six shades darker by now.

 

The throne room of the Empyrean Citadel wasn’t large in size, but it crammed in enough decadence in such a small space to make up for it. The walls were the purest marble, white and perfect, without a single scratch on them. Cyan Rune ore bordered the marble, bridging between the patterned tiled floors and the edge of the walls, as a skirting board, if you will. A beautifully woven red carpet led from the sturdy elderwood door to the winged black and gold throne, currently vacant. There was no roof, nor glass for the windows, allowing the brilliant clear skies to pour and seep natural light among the occupants of the chamber. Two empty black bird cages flanked the throne.

Floating slightly up from the floor were stone podiums; light alone carved symbols onto the red bases of the hovering structures.

They were the symbols of the gods.

However, only half of the podiums were taken, but they were filled by the most prolific gods in Gielinor.

Saradomin, the God of Order, stood defiantly on his podium, his magnificent white armour glowing in the sunlight. A gold and diamond two tiered crown sat atop his blue-skinned head - the Crown Archival, one of the twelve Elder Artefacts. On his chest plate was printed the symbol of his religion - a four-pointed star.

His white, pupilless eyes pierced daggers through the being stood across the room.

“You claim your acts are not senseless,” he was arguing, “and yet you tried to massacre the people of Falador with an undead army!”

_ Wow, a LOT had happened after the war... _

“Oh, shut up, Saradomin. My general went rogue. Shit happens. Get over it,” Zamorak, the God of Chaos, protested, his crimson pointed wings stretching outwards. He’d clearly recovered from the aftermath of the Battle of Lumbridge - there wasn’t a wound to be seen. Divine healing, perhaps?

Saradomin scoffed. “I will not ‘get over it’. If you cannot control your own generals, what type of commander are you? I will defend my people from you at all costs.”

Armadyl, the avian God of Justice, rounded on Saradomin. His amber feathers faded into red in a calming gradient, fluttering in the breeze. “You speak as if you are a benevolent deity, Saradomin, but the violence you incite reveals your true nature, and your hypocritical ways.”

Bandos, the God of War, grunted. His large stature and green skin was covered head to toe in brown stone armour. “You need war, like Bandos. You crave war. You all do.”

At this, the imposing doors creaked open, another figure stepped through into the chamber.

Saradomin crinkled his brow, confused. “Icthlarin?”

“Damn, this dog has strayed far from his home,” Zamorak commented, a mocking overtone to his words.

“I see Sliske has managed to bend you all to his will too, then,” Icthlarin groaned, ignoring Zamorak entirely.

Bandos huffed. “Bandos thought only mightiest of gods invited. Why is little dog here?”

“I am a god, and the recipient of an invitation, same as you. We must be wary of Sliske’s plot.”

“Know your place, Icthlarin,” Saradomin warned, his chest pushed out and his head held high. “You would be a fool to believe yourself wiser than I.”

Armadyl rolled his eyes. “At least he doesn’t have your arrogance, Saradomin. I, for one, and thankful for the presence of another level head.”

Bandos growled, “You are arrogant, bird-man. And you, dog, you have the nerve to think you can warn us? Warn the mighty Bandos?!”

“Take my words as you will. It doesn’t change the fact that we all stand here, manipulated by the snake,” Icthlarin pointed out, taking his place on the podium with his symbol on it, though it was on the back row, behind the others.

Zamorak sniffed a laugh. “Please. I came because I wanted to. I wasn’t going to miss this.”

“Understandable. Like Sliske, you are of the Mahjarrat,” Icthlarin pointed out. “He knew you would come to watch another of your kind ascend. He just had to ask. It is the rest of us, I’m afraid, that have been manipulated.”

Bandos roared a mighty laugh. “You think Bandos manipulated? Amusing little dog. Sliske made promise to Bandos, and promise mean Bandos come.”

Armadyl rolled his eyes, muttering, “Ah yes, I wonder what  _ that  _ promise was…”

“Hush, bird-man. Sliske promise Bandos you would all be here. Sliske promised Bandos WAR. You will ALL fall!”

Saradomin raised his chin, sticking it out with pride and defiance that his ego commanded. “Ha! Try me. You know what I’m capable of.”

“Not capable of seeing through Sliske’s deception, though...” Armadyl noted, pointedly.

“Unless my eyes deceive me, I see you stood here the same as me, Armadyl.”

“This is my citadel!” Armadyl snapped back. “I will not stand idly by while Sliske intrudes upon the ancient home of my people!”

Zamorak turned his attention to Icthlarin. “And what about you, then? Just happy to receive an invitation, were you?”

“The snake has kidnapped Death. What is the god of the Underworld without Death?”

Zamorak laughed derisively. “Haha! So you’ve come to save your princess, huh?”

Bandos joined in on the fun. “The dog comes to fetch his bones.”

“Enough!” Icthlarin cut through their mocking, sharply. “Sliske will be enjoying this, us turning on one another. Shall we set aside our differences until this madness has come to a conclusion?”

“Icthlarin’s right,” Armadyl stepped forward. “We’ve all been summoned here for a reason. Here we stand, the most gods in a single space since The First Age. Let us focus our attention on Sliske, not squabbling like mortals.”

 

_ Meanwhile... _

Jahaan had noticed Azzanadra and Wahisietel among the present company and was torn on whether to approach them and potentially face the wrath of Azzanadra. The fact Wahisietel was there did help matters, for Jahaan knew he had an ally in Ali the Wise, but it still took a lot of internal encouragement to put one foot in front of the other.

_ Just… water under the bridge…  _ Jahaan tried to reassure himself, faltering as he caught Azzanadra’s eyeline.

Huffing, he concluded that there was ‘no time like the present’ and stepped close enough to greet them. “Wahisietel. Azzanadra.”

“Jahaan,” Wahisietel said the name warmly, while Azzanadra echoed it with a hint of bitterness that was ill-concealed.

Wahisietel, obviously irritated by the awkward silence that followed, nudged his Mahjarrat companion, urging a reluctant Azzanadra to speak.

Purple eyes peered down into Jahaan’s green ones. “I was disappointed by your actions in Guthix’s chamber, Jahaan. I had faith in you. I thought you would trust me over those Guthixians. However... it took some...  _ convincing… _ ” his eyes lingered on Wahisietel as he struggled to get the words out. “But I see now why you acted as you did. Zaros has not yet proven himself to you, and the Guthuxians had flooded your mind with their propaganda. I was not pleased, but I forgive you.”

He offered a hand out to Jahaan, one large enough to engulf the human’s with ease. Nevertheless, a relieved Jahaan took it gladly. “Thanks, Azzanadra. I’m sorry it all had to happen the way it did.”

“As am I, but we shall speak no more of it.”

More than content with this, Jahaan happily changed the topic. “So, did Sliske invite you?”

“He did not,” Azzanadra grumbled. “As fellow Zarosian Mahjarrat, we believed he would welcome us inside.”

Wahisietel added, “It would seem only the gods themselves were deemed worthy of invitations. These undead brothers refuse our entry.”

Azzanadra gravely remarked, “With such powerful beings gathered here, it is only a matter of time until someone breaks in…”

“...And it will take more than some of Sliske's wights to stop them,” Wahisietel finished, scanning the room with a calculated glare.

Something sparked in Jahaan’s mind, a forgotten detail Azzanadra had accidentally jogged to the forefront of his memory. “Wait, Sliske’s a Zarosian?”

“Ha.  _ ‘Was’  _ might be a more apt term…” Wahisietel grumbled. “He has always been selfish. Now he has the arrogance to claim godhood? I seriously doubt his loyalty to the Empty Lord.”

Azzanadra didn’t seem to have Wahisietel’s conviction, despite his own devotion to the Empty Lord and disdain for those who defy him, something Jahaan knew  _ first hand _ .

Thus, his rebuttal was weak and mumbled. “Sliske has his own methods Wahisietel. We do not know the extent of his loyalty…”

“I do not know why you still desire to trust him, Azzanadra,” Wahisietel shook his head, his features a picture of disappointment and worry.

Hiding his fretting well enough, Azzanadra sternly maintained, “We have no way of knowing if he is still loyal to Zaros; Sliske has always played his cards close to his chest.”

“Do you believe he has ascended to godhood?” Jahaan inquired.

“It would seem he has completed the steps to become a god,” the words didn’t come to Azzanadra easily, like he was walking on foreign soil. “But I do not believe that he has truly ascended. Not yet, that is.”

Wahisietel was quick to jump in, “What we believe is irrelevant - what we  _ know  _ is important. Sliske is not only mischievous, but he is also dangerous,” he sniffed a humourless laugh. “I'm not even sure he trusts himself.”

“Why, If it isn’t the World Guardian!”

The rough, growling voice startled Jahaan; he shot around, seeing Zemouregal was making a b-line straight towards him. Wahisietel and Azzanadra shifted their stances ever so subtly, not wanting to alert the entire room they were preparing themselves for a fight, if Zemouregal instigated one. Enakhra tailed behind him.

Taking that Zemouregal had a good foot on him, towering over Jahaan like he were an infant, it was hard not to be intimidated by the armoured Mahjarrat. After barely scraping by his last encounter with Zemouregal - it was the Mahjarrat’s pride and ego that ultimately led to his defeat - Jahaan didn’t fancy his chances on a second go-around, especially with Enakhra backing him. Even with Azzanadra and Wahisietel as back-up, if a conflict arose, who’s to say General Graardor wouldn’t muck in on the action, or Commander Zilyana wouldn’t settle an old score from Guthix’s chamber?

He knew he had a lot of enemies here, and wanted to antagonise none of them.

_ But it was oh-so tempting to rub in Zemouregal's defeat at his hands, right in front of everybody... _

“What are  _ you  _ doing here, mortal?” Zemouregal's derisively asked. “Got tired of baking pies or cutting trees, or whatever it is your kind do for fun.”

“I could ask you the same question,” Wahisietel cut Jahaan’s response off before he could say something they all would, inevitably, regret.

“We have come to deal with that  _ filthy Zarosian  _ \- Sliske - once and for all,” Zemouregal declared, sneering up at Azzanadra, making sure the insult wasn’t lost on present company. In return, Azzanadra squared up to him and countered, “I don’t see you doing a very job of getting in. Those wights of his a little too formidable for you, Zemouregal?”

Hissing a curse word coarse on Jahaan’s mortal ears, Zemouregal sized up to Azzanadra; their noses were practically touching at this point.

“Enough, Zemouregal,” Enakhra, surprisingly, was the volunteer ‘voice of reason’, cautious of the attention they were gathering from the followers of other gods. “There will be time enough for this. There are more pressing matters at hand.  _ Sliske _ ,” she spat the word like poison. “is claiming ascension? Please. Zamorak walked that path many years ago. He was worthy of the title.”

“Sliske isn’t half the Mahjarrat our master is,” Zemouregal finished, haughtily.

“Which still makes him twice the Mahjarrat you are…” Jahaan couldn’t help but mumble under his breath, earning a snicker-turned-cough from Azzanadra.  _ Oh come on, he walked RIGHT into that one… _

Zemouregal, on the other hand, did not see the funny side. “What was that, human?!”

“Enough!” Enakhra was, once again, the one to ease the icy tension of the room. Nevertheless, her frustration did seem to be catching up to her, her forehead creased like crumbled papyrus. “I can’t stand your company any longer. Sliske cannot claim godhood without us having something to say about it,” she growled, turning tail and storming off across the citadel hall. Admittedly, it wasn’t a large expanse of space, so she looked akin to a sulking child running off to grumble in the corner.

After one pronounced and threatening look to Jahaan, his steely glare reading him a death sentence, Zemouregal parted as well.

Stretching out the kinks in his neck and rolling his aching shoulders, Jahaan remarked, “I don’t think Zemouregal’s going to take it well when I’m allowed through…”

This caused Wahisietel to pause. “You have an invitation?”

“More like I’m Icthlarin’s plus one,” Jahaan surmised, figuring Sliske would have likely ascended by the time he explained the whole spiel to them. “Speaking of, I don’t think I can delay the inevitable much longer…”

Wahisietel placed a comforting hand on Jahaan’s shoulder. “Good luck in there, World Guardian.”

Azzanadra placed a large palm on Jahaan’s other shoulder, an unusual display of affection for the forbidding Mahjarrat. “You have our support.”

 

_ Inside the throne room... _

“...There is no place for your theory of chaos in a peaceful world,” Armadyl was stating, assertively. “Only the just will persevere.”

Zamorak challenged, “Oh for fuck’s sake, Armadyl. All you do is TALK. You never DO. I say less talking, more action.”

Bandos roared with laughter, clapping his giant hands together. The force of the shockwaves created could be felt across the room. “Yes, fight! Bandos would enjoy watching you rip pieces off each other!”

Suddenly, a voice echoed around the chamber. “Now now, children, settle down…”

The gods looked amongst themselves, high and low, before a flash of grey smoke revealed Sliske, entering with a theatrical flourish, before standing confidently in front of the throne.

Saradomin clenched his fist. “Do not presume that I won’t kill you where you stand, Sliske.”

“Indeed,” Armadyl concurred, “What if your claims of great power are no more tangible than the smoke that brought you here?”

“I thought you might say that. Well, in as many words...” Sliske rubbed his palms together, his smile spreading into a devilish grin. “So I brought a little surprise for you all. Try not to get too excited!”

With a click of his fingers, the cages beside the throne became bathed in smoke and mist. Once it ebbed away into the nothingness, two figures could be seen inside.

“To my right, the one and only… DEATH!” Sliske announced with a grand wave of his arm. “And to my left, the ferocious dragonkin… Strisath! I know, I know, I impress even myself sometimes. You may hold your applause.”

“Pah!” Bandos spat. “What makes you think your new toys will stop Bandos from crushing you?”

Armadyl piped up, “Gods, we could put an end to this lunacy right now.”

“Ah ah ah, slow down, everyone,” Sliske calmed them, taking a seat on the throne behind him. The act made Armadyl twitch. “Let us think about this. What would happen to your mortal followers if I were to kill Death itself, I wonder?”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Icthlarin barked, fire in his eyes.

“Wouldn't I?” Sliske’s eyebrows raised in challenge. “Even if that wasn’t enough to put you off, how about I release Strisath? His power has been quite formidable lately…”

Saradomin’s eyes narrowed. “Someone's been using the Stone of Jas.”

Sliske smiled, innocently. “Perhaps. Now, if any of you would like to take the risk, be my guest. Anyone? No? I thought not. Now, where were we?”

“Let Death out of the cage!” Icthlarin demanded, his fury barely containable, and he was barely able to hold himself back, until the creaking of the large door snapped his mind back into sanity.

Jahaan strode through the large doorway into the marble chamber, his eyes briefly clocking and noting down the present gods before his eyes fell upon Sliske.

“Well well, the guest of honour has arrived,” Sliske drawled. “You’re late.”

Icthlarin nodded to him, a small smile of relief breaking up his features. “Welcome, friend.”

Bandos, instead, was incredulous. “What is this pathetic human doing here?”

“He is the infamous World Guardian,” Sliske explained. “What’s the matter, Bandos? Jealous?”

Jahaan held his chin high as he walked further down the red carpet, settling himself between two of the god’s podiums, a smile dancing on his lips.

Zamorak scoffed. “And how did  _ you  _ get an invitation? Make one in an arts and crafts class?”

“He has more right to be here than you, weakling,” Saradomin countered, his eyes flashing with an open challenge. Before Zamorak could accept - which he would have gladly done - Sliske cut in, “Moving on! You are just in time for the main event: my ascension into godhood! Are you all sitting comfortably?”

Zamorak’s patience was wearing thin. “Get on with it then, charlatan!”

Sliske could only laugh. “Ooo feisty! ‘Charlatan’, he says, coming from the usurper and backstabber himself. I’ll let it slide - I can see you’re all desperate to know what this is about. You see, I happened across a couple of artifacts… of the Elder variety.”

Armadyl was quick to vocalize, “The Elder God Artefacts are not mere playthings for your amusement, Sliske. They are incredibly dangerous!”

“Yes, yes. You’d only need to ask a certain deceased god to figure that out. Oh, sorry - too soon? Ah, but I have not only managed to acquire your staff, Armadyl, but also... the Stone of Jas.”

“Bullshit!” Zamorak spat. “There is no proof you have the Stone!”

Sliske replied with a coy smirk, “You think I just go around kidnapping dragonkin for fun?”

Said dragonkin, Strisath, barked, “Arg! You will pay for this, False User!”

“Angry little darling, isn’t he?” Sliske chuckled, regarding the caged dragonkin with amusement.

Saradomin’s eyes narrowed. “You are not worthy of the power the Stone possesses, Sliske. It could be used to remove all the gods from Gielinor, as Guthix once did.”

“Then you better be careful, eh Sara?”

Armadyl shook his head. “Need I remind you, Sliske, that as your own power increases, as does the power of the dragonkin. The monstrous creatures obliterated the planet neighbouring my homeworld. The longer you play with fire, Sliske, the longer they will burn you for it.”

Jahaan regarded the increasingly rageful dragonkin with trepidation, only taking mild comfort from the fact there were two gods closer to it than he was. Gulping down his fear, he turned back to Sliske and asked, “How did you capture the dragonkin, anyway? And the Staff… how’d you get your hands on it?”

Sliske clapped his hands together with glee. “Now, this really was quite clever of me. See, dragonkin are awfully predictable as a species. It didn’t take much for me to lure Strisath into the Shadow Realm. In he came, charging like a big scaly canine, and what does he bring with him? Why, the Staff of Armadyl! I couldn’t believe my luck! He was its guard at the time, and I suppose he couldn’t leave it unattended when he came after me, but still… a bit daft, wasn’t it Strisath? Not only did he trap himself in the Shadow Realm, he brought the Staff straight to me.”

“The Staff isn’t yours, you scoundrel,” Armadyl spat. “The clue is in the title - the Staff belongs to ME.”

“Oh, give it a rest, you little bird,” Bandos cut in, “You are weak. The Staff should belong to Bandos.”

Ignoring the two bickering Gods arguing over his head, Jahaan said, “I helped with this intricate teleportation… thing… to get rid of the Stone. How did  _ you _ find it?”

“Oh, yes - an ingenious plan of yours, I must say, the way you disposed of the Stone. It took an even more ingenious plan to outplay you there. I wish I could take credit for it, but I had a little help. See, I've been told that the Staff of Armadyl is an extremely versatile tool. With Strisath imprisoned, I used the Staff to reveal his connection to the Stone, guiding me towards it. Annoyingly, it was frozen in ice beneath the Temple of the Lost Ancients. To say it wasn't easy to retrieve it is putting it mildly.”

Jahaan was still hung up on this ‘'little help’ Sliske spoke of, but before he could question him, an agitated Icthlarin spoke up, “You brought us here for your ascension. Have you achieved godhood or not?”

“Ahaha! You really believe I brought you here so you could have answers? No, no, no - there will be no ascendancy today. That might have been a little white lie, a ruse to get you all here. It's time for the  _ real _ announcement: I am holding a contest. A free-for-all, you might say. A battle of the gods!”

Zamorak scoffed and shook his head. “This is ridiculous, even for you, and the bar is LOW.”

Saradomin added, “If you think we will be a part of your games, you have truly lost your mind, Sliske.”

“You really are no fun at all, are you Saradomin?” Sliske frowned. “It's not so much a game - more survival of the fittest. There is only one rule, you see. It is not long now until our moon - Zanaris - passes the sun, resulting in a total eclipse. Gielinor will be engulfed in shadow. It is at this exact moment the contest will end… and the winner will be the person who has killed the most gods.”

Bandos’ face morphed into something resembling a grin, one full of bloodlust and anticipation. “Haha! Finally you say something interesting!”

Saradomin cut him down, “Be quiet and let the intellectuals talk, you brute.”

Armadyl rounded on Sliske. “Why would any of us listen to you, you madman?”

“Because, Armadyl, there’s a prize. One little prize I think you all might be interested in. When the sun is eclipsed and most of you are defeated, to the one that stands victorious I will gift… the Stone of Jas.”

Instantly, the gods were in uproar, cursing and speaking over one another in a frenzy.

“This is ludicrous!”

“This will cause an all-out war between the gods, like the ones seen in the Third Age!”

“You’re insane, Sliske!”

“Don’t believe a word that comes out of this rogue’s mouth!”

“Do you have any idea what this will do to the world? To all of us?!” Saradomin exclaimed, his fists clenching in tight balls.

“What's the matter? Scared Bandos will crush you?” Sliske taunted, menacingly. “Maybe you should be more tactical, you know? Pick off the weaker gods first…” he then turned his attention to Jahaan, who had been rather quiet in the foray. “And what about our honourable guest? How do you feel about this, World Guardian?”

With a deep breath and courage he was only half sure he had, given the present company, Jahaan pronounced, “Icthlarin’s right. We shouldn't trust a word out of Sliske’s mouth. He’s just going to deceive us again.”

“The mortal is correct,” Armadyl declared. “We must not listen to Sliske. We must seek peace through justice.”

“Shut your beak, coward,” Bandos snarled. “Bandos can smell fear. All of you will fall before the mighty war god Bandos!”

“Even if you have become a god, Sliske, you are merely a fledgling,” Saradomin was quick to point out. “You do not have the right to enforce this!”

“Silence!” Sliske cried, rising from the throne with a start. “This petty arguing is becoming irritating. If you won't do it, then I'll kick things off myself…”

Suddenly, Sliske threw a charge of dark energy at Icthlarin, who from the force of the blast was knocked off his podium and to the ground. Before Jahaan could register what was happening, Sliske tossed the key to Death’s cage at him and, with a malicious glint in his eyes, unlocked the dragonkin’s cage.

“Ta-ta!” Sliske cheered before teleporting away, just as the dragonkin lunged for him.

In a manic fury, Strisath reared onto his hind legs, his dagger-like teeth glinting in the sunlight. With a mighty roar, he inhaled deeply and breathed out a scolding stream of fire at Icthlarin. Fortunately, the demigod managed to stumble to his feet in time and shield himself and Jahaan behind a green barrier of energy.

“Why did he give you the key?!” Icthlarin asked in crazed confusion, struggling under the weight of the dragonkin’s fire.

“I don’t know!” Jahaan cried in response.

Strisath then turned his attention to the other gods, sending fire around the room without prejudice, causing the gods to teleport away from the dangerous dragonkin.

Just as another fireball was sent his way, Icthlarin urged. “Go and release Death. I don’t know how long I can hold this barrier…”

With a firm nod of his head, Jahaan made towards to cage. But without the other gods for distraction, Strisath focused his fire on Jahaan. The young man dove to the ground just as a fireball careered over his head, crumbling the marble pillar it came into contact with. To give him the chance he needed to release Death, Icthlarin threw small, irritating bolts of energy at Strisath, just to hold his focus long enough for Jahaan to unlock the cage containing Death.

When he did, Death and Jahaan hurried back behind the protection of Icthlarin’s shield, but the demigod was struggling. “I don’t think I can hold it!”

Once the next fireball hit, the shield crumbled and Icthlarin fell to the ground, panting and gasping for air. He looked up at Death, who used a blue ball of energy to bring forth his Scythe and, just as the next fireball was released towards them, he teleported himself, Icthlarin and Jahaan away.

 

They returned close to the spot Icthlarin and Jahaan had departed from, Brother Samuel close by. He had acquired a shovel, likely from one of the many tool leprechauns tending to nearby farming patches, and had dug three graves to bury the corpses. A few flowers torn from around the area were placed on top of each mound.

When he saw the return of Jahaan, Icthlarin and Death, he hurried over to them.

“You’re back!” he exclaimed. “Did you bring this Sliske character to justice? And OH-” he regarded Death with the same look a child gives an ogre. “U-Um, hello? You must be Death.”

“Greetings, mortal,” Death addressed. “I am sorry for the loss of your brothers. They are safe in my domain now, and shall rest in peace.”

“Thank you,” Brother Samuel relaxed slightly. “And this Sliske?”

Jahaan regretfully informed, “I’m afraid it wasn’t as easy as that. He had many bargaining chips, to put it simply.”

“But… but he’s a murderer…” Brother Samuel whimpered, his downcast eyes falling upon the graves of his comrades.

It was Icthlarin who put a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder, saying, “Do not fear, mortal. He  _ will  _ be brought to justice. You have my word.”

There was always a gravitas inside Icthlarin’s tone, a voice you could trust with both a promise and a threat, and he spoke both inside his words to Brother Samuel.

“Thank you, Iccy-larin,” Brother Samuel attempted; Icthlarin bit his tongue, deciding it wasn’t the right moment to correct the man. “And thank you all - I am eternally grateful. But now, I will continue my journey onwards now that I know the souls of my brothers are safe. I must inform their loved ones. Farewell.”

After saying their goodbyes, Brother Samuel departed north, carrying the backpacks of his fallen brothers alongside his own.

Death, standing almost two feet above them both, looked down upon Jahaan and Icthlarin and said, “My absence will have consequences. I have to return to my duties; there is an abundance of souls to be reaped. Thank you, my friends. Without you, I may have never escaped.”

“Farewell, Harold,” Icthlarin waved as Death used his scythe to teleport away.

_ Harold? _ Jahaan tried not to chuckle, instead asking, “So what will you do now, Icthlarin?”

“There is much work to be done. I have duties to attend to in the Underworld. However, we must be cautious. Gods will fall in the coming days. The Stone of Jas is too powerful to be ignored. Some may fight, some may go for Sliske, some may employ other tactics. But everyone will want the Stone. We could be facing the start of the next God Wars. Even mortals may try to win the Stone,” he put a hand on Jahaan’s shoulder, and using that same solid tone he used on Brother Samuel, said, “Make no mistake, my friend. These are grave times, and we all have a part to play. Clearly Sliske has taken an interest in you. As a World Guardian, your choices could decide the fates of the gods themselves. This is the most pivotal event to have occurred for thousands of years. The consequences will shape a new future.”

Jahaan let out a shaky breath. “No pressure then.”

“I have one last thing to discuss with you before we part ways,” Icthlarin said. “When a person’s life on Gielinor comes to an end, their soul enters my domain. There, I guide them to the afterlife of the deity they worshipped in life.”

“But what about those that are godless?” Jahaan queried. “Where do they go?”

Icthlarin explained, “For those souls, I meet them at the bridge over the River Noumenon, and ask them to decide. They can choose in that moment to cross into the afterlife of a deity they have at least some tangible connection to. Another option is to live on in death, acting as my helpers, to protect souls from The Devourer as I guide them to the afterlife. Otherwise… they cease to be.”

Jahaan furrowed his brow, warily asking, “What do you mean, ‘cease to be’?”

With a hint of trouble in his eyes, Icthlarin continued, “If a soul does not decide upon a destination, I cannot compel it to an afterlife against its will. The Devourer will claim those souls, their existence erased from the Underworld.”

Shaking his head, trying to comprehend this information, Jahaan said, “Okay, but… why are you telling  _ me  _ all this? Why now?”

“You aided me in rescuing Death,” Icthlarin replied, “In return, I thought I would inform you of this, and tell you that, as of now, you have no set destination in the afterlife. While I do not know when you shall pass - that knowledge only resides with the Reaper - I wanted to allow you the opportunity to contemplate your fate, instead of deciding at the last possible moment, as so many poor souls have to do.”

Understanding now, Jahaan smiled warmly and gave the jackal-headed deity a small, humble bow. “Thanks, Icthlarin.”

It was hard to tell due to the nature of his features, but Icthlarin appeared to be smiling back before saying, “Now, I have my duties to attend to in the Underworld. I hope we meet again in this life, my friend.”

Jahaan watched him go with a sigh.  _ Now what? _

Readjusting his backpack, making it slightly more comfortable on his shoulders, he just started walking, but west this time.

_ Perhaps I will try and walk to Prifddinas, _ he mused, his pace an amble, not a march.

But what Jahaan didn't realise was that, as he ambled on, the world was falling apart behind him.


	19. Bird of Prey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 05: MISSING, PRESUMED DEATH  
> Chapter 3: Bird of Prey
> 
> Sliske invites all of Gielinor’s returned gods to his ‘grand ascendency’, claiming godhood. Instead, he uses the platform to pit all the gods against one another in a free-for-all that threatens to tear Gielinor apart. Their incentive? The sole survivor will be awarded what every deity is desperate for - the Stone of Jas…

God emissaries had taken up residence in some of Gielinor’s major cities, preaching to anyone that would listen about why their deity should be worshipped above all else. As one would expect, this didn’t go down too well in some places, especially when you had Saradominist followers preaching in Oo’glog (a Bandosian stronghold), or Zamorakians having the nerve to try and preach in Falador, something the Saradominists had outlawed many years ago. So alongside this supposed ‘undead army’ that came and went, Falador also had an invasion by the black knights to deal with.

Now that the gods had returned, people thought they had the right to excuse despicable, discriminatory behavior, all in the name of religion. The old vampire of Draynor was ousted from his home by a pitchforked mob, accused of being a Zamorakian. In reality, he didn’t worship any deity, and any claims of bloodsucking were entirely made up - he loathed the stuff, preferring to drink milk. Saradomin had pretty much laid claim to all human settlements on Gielinor, save for Taverley and Burthorpe, who remained stoutly Guthixian. No-one else preached there - it was still too soon.

The Dark Wizards Tower had come under attack from their Saradominist counterparts. In return, the Saradominist temple on the outskirts of Morytania came under siege. Some of the ogres that settled near Yanille - who had been keeping to themselves for the better part of a decade - crashed through the city’s gates one sunrise. Meanwhile, in the Kharidian Desert, the bandits in their encampment had started kicking up more of a ruckus than normal; they were one of the few concentrated pockets of Zarosian followers,  _ and they decided to let everybody know. _

Gods help anyone who tried to preach on Karamja. Those people were set in their ways, and will kindly introduce you to their friend ‘poisoned spear’ if you dare tell them otherwise.

The peace that had been formed since the end of the God Wars was starting to crumble, and Gielinor was suffering for it.

The worst case of god clashing came in the form of the direct confrontation of two of Gielinor’s major deities: Armadyl and Bados.

Armadyl, the avian god of justice, was the patron deity of the aviantese, a race of birdlike creatures from Abbinah, to which he also belonged. Unfortunately, the God Wars destroyed most of the aviantese. Because of this, Armadyl left Gielinor at the end of the wars to roam the cosmos, mourning his lost kin.

The Armadylean holy book was rarely known beyond the avianse or dedicated religious scholars of Gielinor. Much of it was written by Armadyl himself, and split into two testaments - the First, written during his time on Abbinah and Gielinor, and the Latter, compiled after the God Wars - written in the form of a journal - as he travelled from world to world, always searching, never resting.

One of the extracts that showed Armadyl’s journey back to his home world of Abbinah is most beloved among the avianse; it is right before their deity returned, reborn, and taking upon the aspect of a phoenix that rose from the ashes…

 

_ “I arrived on this world several sunsets ago. This is a desolate place: the ground is grey dust in all directions; it is cold and light is scarce. I taste the air and know my people could never have survived here. It is a fitting place for me to stay, for a time. _

_ I walk as I write. My wings trail in the dust, a zigzag record of my time here, and my thoughts turn to legacy. There is nothing of me on Gielinor: my aviansie are dead, my Staff has been lost. In time, they will forget me. There is something reassuring about that. _

_ A bright light catches my eye, far to the west. I fly to it. It is nothing but a meteorite, smoking in a crater. This world's similarity to the wilderness of Forinthry is inescapable. _

 

_ There is no land on this world, just wind, water and waves. Nothing stays still. The chaos of it all deafens me. I hunger for peace, stability, growth; so - upon my arrival - I froze water and made an island. A migrating bird still needs a perch. _

_ To pass the time, I flew on the crosswinds and tried to forget my troubles. I remembered that my aviansie would fly about me as I soared, playfully mimicking my every move. _

_ I know now that I cannot - should not - forget… no matter how much I may wish it. _

_ It seems there is no life on this world. I can see the seeds of life, but not life itself. I feel myself reaching for my Staff, to give those seeds a spark of energy, a push to catalyse their efforts… _

_ But it is gone. _

_ I have wasted enough time here. _

 

_ The sky is a boiling mass of noxious gas, and the ground seems to be melting. But - by the Elder Gods - there's life here! _

_ I headed southwards, until everything grew colder. I saw what looked like dark stones, fused to the ground. I attempted to move one, and to my surprise it moved itself! These were not stones, but small, shelled creatures. Sharp legs shot out in an attempt to repel me. _

_ I have taken to studying them. Weather, temperatures and tectonics conspiring against them, but they hold firm, clustered in their shells. They survive and endure, again and again.  _

_ I must continue my solitary pilgrimage. _

 

_ The air here is toxic; hard, unrelenting gravity pulls me downwards, and even I must struggle to remain aloft. The world is gas, with no ground to stand on. And yet, this world is a paradise for the beings native to its atmosphere: tiny creatures, the biggest no larger than a wasp or beetle.  _

_ They circle around me. At first, I thought they wanted to hide in the down of my feathers. But when I turned, they turned. When I stopped, they stopped. _

_ They were mimicking and playing. _

_ I feel my old strength - enough to make the journey back to my home. In the hollows of my bones I know that it is time to return, and to shelter my faithful beneath my wings once more.” _

 

It was Bandos who the winged deity clashed with the most.

Bandos was a very powerful, manipulative and bloodthirsty entity, known for taking pleasure in conflict and slaughter. He demanded worship and unquestioned obedience. His followers' main trait is strength, generally at the cost of intelligence, making them valuable warriors who would listen to him blindly. He did not usually care if most of his armies were wiped out - he fought solely for the sake of battle and would enjoy the bloodshed, provided that he retained enough troops to fight for him. But do not let his bulking size and monosyllabic dialect fool you - his cunning and battle prowess is second to none.

There was no such thing as a physical Bandosian holy book; those of intelligence were accused of being defiers of the War God, thus very few of Bandos’ followers could read or write. However, tales of Bandos, alongside his preachings, philosophies and beliefs, had been passed down verbally for generations, naturally altering throughout time, as all tales do.

One tale, however, managed to keep quite consistent throughout its history: it was the story of Bandos’ reign over Yu'biusk.

 

The hobgoblins of the Thrasghdak tribe built a statue of Bandos, higher than their tallest building. Bandos loathed the statue, declaring the only craftsmanship he admired was that of fine weaponry. He ordered the statue to be torn down, and said that the craftsman must use their skills and resources to create weapons and armour.

He said if they did this, they would be the greatest tribe of Yu'biusk.

The orks of the Verotark tribe built smaller, more humble statues, all across their city. Seeing this, Bandos pointed to the Thrasghdak, saying how their statue was magnificent, like a second sun… but he said they had torn it down in defiance, had erected secret workshops to craft weapons not for him, but to fight against his righteous rule! He ordered them to gather their tribe for battle, and destroy the Thrasghdak tribe. Men, women, children and the elderly… there was to be no mercy for any of them.

He said if they did this, they would be the greatest tribe of Yu'biusk.

The ogres of the Azkragthog tribe waited until the Verotark returned weak from battle, and obliterated them. They didn’t destroy any weapons they came across - instead, they used them for battle to aid in their conquest. There was no statue, no ballad, no ceremony of worship. This greatly pleased Bandos. He ordered them to build more weapons and use them to conquer the tribes beyond the mountains and beyond the oceans.

He said if they did this, they would be the greatest tribe of Yu'biusk.

To the ourgs of the Goltholglor tribe, Bandos ordered that they stand and fight against the armies of the Azkragthog that were bearing down on their cities. He gave them the same weapons as the Azkragthog - a fighting chance - but instead of defending themselves, the Goltholglor tribe sent diplomats to plead for peace. The wise ones of the Goltholglor tribe said that to go on using the new weapons would be the end to all life in Yu'biusk. Bandos decried them as cowards who wished to corrupt the true followers of Bandos. He decreed that if anyone preached against war, they were to be put to the sword.

He said that the last tribe to survive would be greater tribe in Yu'biusk.

 

Armadyl’s followers had been seen preaching in a camp north of Falador and, for some reason, it was Bandos who took umbrage at this. Then again, Bandos would take umbrage against the sky for any rain that fell on him. The camp was located on the merchant’s road between Taverley and Falador; Armadyl had very few human followers and no territory on the ground to call him own, so his emissaries had taken to setting themselves up where they could. Now, granted, the camp was a  _ little  _ close to the Goblin Village, the largest settlement of goblins in all of Gielinor and, naturally, Bandosian. Then again, it was also in a large expanse of Saradominist territory, and he didn’t seem to mind. It’s debatable if he even knew, let alone cared.

 

A terrifying rumble, like the roars of ungodly thunder, shook the area around the encampment, so vicious that it knocked over trees and caused an avalanche on the nearby mountain. From the dark grey skies, Bandos appeared, towering twice as high as the walls of Taverley. He loomed down on the helpless Armadyleans below, a malicious smirk cracking through his dark green features, before he crashed down a giant foot onto them and squashed them into the dirt below, like insects.

Armadyl… did not take too kindly to that. As soon as word reached him, he materialised and - reminiscent to the battle between Zamorak and Saradomin - camps were erected, armies were gathered (with Saradominists aiding the Armadyleans once they heard the news), and the war commenced. This time, divine energy was being gathered to help empower large weapons of mass destruction both sides were constructing. 

Despite this, Bandos occasionally took to snatching up a handful of goblins and lobbing them across the battlefield at Armadyl.

Armadyl remained on his perch, his tactics much less crude. At least this time the battle did not take place in the middle of a major human settlement; no evacuations were necessary, taking place in the sizable area north of Falador and east of Taverley. The battle also only lasted six weeks, still with heavy casualties on either side, but like the previous clashing of Saradomin and Zamorak, it ended as suddenly as it began.

The catapult-like weapon Armadyl had been constructing, which he’d dubbed ‘The Divine Focus’, simmered with barely contained energy. The avianse deity looked oh-so satisfied as he shot a cannonball-sized orb of power across the skies, straight towards an enraged Bandos. He ordered his weapon - far weaker in comparison - to be fired in retaliation, but his armies were too slow.

The orb crashed down, smashing through Bandos’ fortifications, scattering his armies… and decapitating the Big High War God. Flying over to the corpse, Armadyl set himself down beside Bandos’ remains, a cold and unfeeling look in his thin eyes. He then took Bandos’ own mace, very heavy in his grasp, and held it aloft, before driving it down and through the deceased god’s skull. His head was crushed and split into fragments, his brain leaking from the remains.

Armadyl did not look happy, but he looked relieved; he’d set out what he’d resolved to do, and that was to remove the threat of Bandos from Gielinor.

With a squawking war-cry to the heavens, Armadyl held the mace aloft and teleported from the battlefield.

From the remains of Bandos’ fortifications, some of the soldiers began erecting shrines to their new deity, Armadyl. After all, it was Bandos who taught them that only the weak died, and only the strongest deserved worship.


	20. Love Bites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 05: MISSING, PRESUMED DEATH  
> Chapter 4: Love Bites
> 
> Sliske invites all of Gielinor’s returned gods to his ‘grand ascendency’, claiming godhood. Instead, he uses the platform to pit all the gods against one another in a free-for-all that threatens to tear Gielinor apart. Their incentive? The sole survivor will be awarded what every deity is desperate for - the Stone of Jas…

Jahaan stopped off in a small town south of the Tree Gnome Stronghold. The Stronghold was a planned pit-stop of his way to Prifddinas as it wasn’t too far off course, and he wanted to visit a couple of old friends from back when he aided in saving their sacred spirit trees from extinction. Secretly, he was hoping they’d glider him all the way to Prifddinas, but their policy of ferrying outsiders was very strict, despite his service to their race.

The town was rather nondescript, leaning towards the dismal side of things; Jahaan didn’t even know it’s name. At least it had a bank, so Jahaan could gather his weapons, armour and other equipment - things he didn’t like being apart from for too long. The armour was like a second skin by now. The locals weren’t exactly friendly, and most seemed rather disgruntled to be approached, but after asking around long enough, he gathered there was a pub he could get some dinner at, and just down the pathway was a hostel he could rent a room at. Deciding the room was most important to secure, he opted to go there first, and was relieved when they had just one room spare for that night.

Up the narrow staircase and last door on the left, he was told. Creaking the battered wooden door open, he took in his temporary lodging with a bite of his lip. Well, could be worse.

The room wasn’t small, but it clearly hadn’t been dusted since before Jahaan had been born. He hoped the changing of the bed linen was more frequent than the routine cleaning. Still, it had a quaint little ornaments cabinet, full of worthless trinkets, and shelves that housed much of the same tat. Someone was trying to go for a ‘homey’ feel in the heart of this drab town. It sort of worked.

Taking off his armour, he stretched out the creases in his back and shoulders, wishing for there to be a masseuse in the town, though doubtful there would be. He tucked it away inside the oak wardrobe, trying not to dent the fragile wood as he did so, before resting his bow and arrow quiver against the door if it, alongside his two shortswords.

The rune dagger, naturally, he tucked back into the holster in the back of his trousers. It’d become like another limb; wherever he went, he couldn’t be apart from it. It provided constant security, something that greatly comforted Jahaan.

 

First impressions didn't exactly leave Jahaan feeling comfortable in the surroundings. Glancing up at the old-style sign, chipped and scratched all over, he confirmed this was indeed The Red Flag that had been recommended to him, though some of the letters were too faded to make out. As he stepped toward the thick wooden door with dents in it, splintered no doubt from somebody's body or fist, two burly men stumbled out and would have careered straight into him blindly if he hadn't nimbly slipped out of the way. Watching them stroll off, his hand instinctively slid to the back of his trousers where he kept the small blade sheathed. A part of Jahaan considered trying to find somewhere else open at this hour, but the rumbling in his stomach ordered otherwise.

Taking a deep breath, he braced himself and entered the bar.

The place was unbelievably crowded, full to the brim with the local residents avidly spending their time and money at the crucible of the town. The counter was lined with roars of laughter and engrossed, slurred chatter, each customer at least two watered-down drinks to their name. Jahaan could barely hear herself think over the pounding noise. On top of that, sight was strained as the air was musky and thick with pipe smoke.

Suddenly, there was a clatter of glass, followed by a stream of profanities and sounds of a nearby fight. Snapping his head to the left, Jahaan noticed the darts game had quickly changed into a grappling contest involving half a dozen men. Some were trying to pull them apart, others were cheering them on. The rest of the bar casually glanced over at the commotion, then turned back to their drinks, apparently considering this the norm.

Sniffing a silent laugh to himself, Jahaan edged to an unoccupied corner of the bar. Catching the bartender's eye was enough to flag him over.

 

Three ales and a portion of lukewarm cod and chips later, Jahaan was finally starting to enjoy the place. The clattering had morphed into an almost comfortable white noise, and the beer helped buff up his courage slightly, just in case a brawl broke out in his vicinity.

“You seem to be running a little low there. Like a top up?” the voice came from a man who took up the bar stool next to him. Eyeing him up, Jahaan noted he didn’t look as gruff as the other locals. He was slightly better dressed, at least, a black jacket covering up a clean white shirt, buttoned all the way up to the top, save for the button around his collar. He was clean shaven too, his dusty brown hair the most unkempt thing about him. Almost as if he knew this, the man ran a hand through his hair, trying to straighten it out.

Peering into his glass, Jahaan didn't realise it was empty until now. "Sure, I wouldn't say no." 

"That's the spirit!" the man turned to the bartender. "Two of whatever my friend is drinking."

After receiving his order, the man slid one glass across to Jahaan and remarked, “I didn't quite catch your name."

Jahaan took a sip of his drink, savouring the bitter ale on his tongue. "It's Jahaan. Yours?" 

"Please to meet you, Jahaan," the man held his glass up. "The name's Charles."

Jahaan met the glass with a *clink*, drinking in cheers. "You’re not from around here, are you Charles?"

“What gave me away?” the man smirked. "True, I’m just passing through, but I like to think I'm from all over, really. What about you? Where do you call home?" 

"I don't, exactly. I guess I'm much the same as you in that respect."

Charles raised his glass in another cheers motion. "Here's to wanderers and travelers. And good ale."

Grinning, Jahaan replied, "I'll drink to that." 

Actually, they drank to a whole lot more that evening. 

 

It didn’t take long before they moved onto something stronger than the cheap ale they’d been guzzling down beforehand. True, it was a lot more expensive, but it tasted  _ good _ .

And with the more liquor the pair drank, the closer Charles became to Jahaan, and the latter had noticed. It was the occasional hand lingering on his arm, the half-lidded gazes, the extra laughs to his not-all-that-funny-if-he’s-being-honest jokes.

This time though, Jahaan wasn’t so blinkered. He’d gathered early on that this man wasn’t ‘Charles’, a random well-dressed stranger in a random dive of a bar.

This time, he was going to use the situation to his advantage.

Doing so was easier said than done though. He had to get the man to trust him back, to follow along to his ruse, and that involved returning Charles’ unsubtle advances. But it was all rather unfamiliar territory to him. At least, when you compared him with someone like Ozan, who took his nickname of ‘the most prolific lover in all of the Kharidian Lands’ very seriously, and lived up to it in full. Ariane was the only woman he’d ever stuck around for.

Jahaan, on the other hand, was rather… inexperienced. Inexperienced, as in,  _ not experienced _ .

At all.

He wasn't much of a flirt, and could count on one hand the amount of people he'd kissed in his life. The whole ordeal just wasn't his cup of tea.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was his suspicions. Something pulled him forwards, and so it ended up being Ozan that he channeled when he leaned forward on his stool, tilted his head and formed a coy little smile. A gentle hand brushed the man's fringe from his eyes, and his forehead was warm to the touch. Hot, in fact. Radiating heat. 

Jahaan forced himself not to flinch backwards, to swallow his reservations and softly cup Charles’ chin. 

_ If I'm right, it'll be worth it.  _

“I think I've had one too many,” Jahaan looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, making sure his words were slurred. “I might need some help getting to my lodging …”

The man's smile grew, and he got up from his stool, motioning for Jahaan to lead the way. When he got to his feet, Jahaan legitimately staggered and swayed few steps as the alcohol caught up to him. It didn't take long for him to right himself though, and the pair made their way into the warm night.

 

The two walked in comfortable silence for most of the short journey, occasionally exchanging glances with one another that said everything that needed to be spoken. When the man linked his fingers with Jahaan's, his breath caught in his throat, but he fought to stay composed and on track.

_ Stay focused, _ he reminded himself, stroking his thumb over the man's soft skin. It seemed like the most natural thing to do.

Too natural. Too comfortable.

 

Jahaan led them up the narrow staircase and through the last door on the left, as he’d been told.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Charles commented, admiring the view from the scratched window.

Without a whisper or a sound, Jahaan slipped behind Charles. He wrapped one hand around the man’s waist and held the thin blade against his neck. Instantly, the man stiffened, tensing his muscles. With a nervous chuckle, he remarked, “So, this is a fancy of yours? A little warning would have been appreciated...”

Before replying, Jahaan tightened his grip around the man and held the dagger a little closer to the thin skin of his jugular, allowing it to bite there. Leaning closer into his ear, he hissed, “I know it’s you,  _ snake… _ ”

There was a long, uncertain pause. 

Jahaan couldn’t see his face, but if he could, he would have seen a thin, unnerving smile break out. Relaxing his tensed muscles, he tilted his head to the side, allowing him to peer behind him as much as the blade predicament allowed. “Took you long enough. And here I thought we might get to know each other a little better.”

The low pur in Sliske's voice caused Jahaan to shiver, but he remained resolute. However, he couldn’t help but be walked backwards as the man pressed against him. “Yes, when you invited me up to your little humble abode, I was rather honoured by the prospect.”

Jahaan didn’t notice how far he’d been led until his shoulders knocked against the thin wall behind him. He tried to keep focused on the weapon in his hand, on the grip he was maintaining, but the combination of alcohol and  _ that voice _ caused his head to spin. Therefore, he didn’t realise the mistake he’d made until Sliske slipped a hand beside his own, between the blade and his neck, and slammed it outwards, crashing the protruding bone into the sharp edge of the cabinet next to them. Howling in agony, Jahaan clutched his throbbing wrist, the dagger clattering to the floor, a secondary thought. Suddenly, he was pinned to the wall with a vice-like claw around his throat, choking the life out of him. Regardless of the body’s shape and appearance, Jahaan was undoubtedly looking into the haunting, familiar eyes of Sliske. The Mahjarrat’s eyes lifted in warning, a cold predatory glare accompanying his cruel tone. “Really Jahaan, if you’re going to slit my throat, at least have the courtesy to look me in the eyes as you do so.”

The grip around his throat tightened, causing any hope of a retort to emit itself as a strangled gurgle or, at best, a hiss of pain. Though he tried, he just didn’t have the strength to force Sliske back, and the thrashing of his legs only drew Sliske in closer as the Mahjarrat subdued his struggling with his own body weight. “Was that really the extent of your plan, hm? Or perhaps you considered luring me into your bed and making sure I never awoke?”

Fortunately, Sliske was too preoccupied with his smug rambling to notice Jahaan’s left hand stretch out and grab a china ornament from the shelf. Thus, the dull knock to the side of Sliske’s head came as rather a surprise. The Mahjarrat went cross-eyed as his brain registered the hit, and Jahaan was released. Desperate to capitalise, he took ahold of the long black hair Sliske had adopted and used it to whirl him face first into the glass cabinet. Shattering glass cried out, smaller fragments embedding themselves in Sliske’s stolen face as they mixed into the blood.

Not wasting a moment, Jahaan snapped to the other end of the room and picked his bow off its hanger, readying an arrow and leveling it at Sliske in a blink. While the Mahjarrat was still crumbled over the cabinet, Jahaan tried to steady his breathing from the shallow rasps he’d become used to, wanting to regain the normal flow of oxygen into his lungs. That, and the erratic pulsing of his heart was starting to make him feel sick.

“Turn around slowly,” he commanded, lowly, “or I’ll shoot.”

Sliske’s laugh was a grating scrape as he turned around, black blood trickling from his features, a crimson mask.

Jahaan tensed the bow, holding it steady. “Game’s over, Sliske. Drop the mask.”

Sniffing a laugh, Sliske’s expression grew dangerously wicked. “Very well. If you insist.”

With a click of his fingers and a slight transition of smoke, the borrowed persona Sliske had adopted changed into the depressingly familiar grey skin and purple robes of his Mahjarrat form.

Jahaan made sure to readjust his aim for the new height of his adversary, “Please, just give me a reason to put this between your eyes.”

“Relax, World Guardian,” the tone was too friendly for Jahaan’s liking - it didn't sit comfortably. “I'm not here to hurt you.”

Jahaan sniffed “I find that hard to believe.”

“Why would I hurt you?” there was an unfamiliar light in Sliske’s glowing yellow iris’. “Darling, my act is dead without you…” he carefully dabbed at the blood on his face with the back of his hand. “So, the chance for civil conversation has past then, I presume?”

“Don’t you think we had enough ‘chit-chat’ at the bar?” Jahaan’s tone was dangerously neutral, the hold on his bow steady and firm.

Chuckling hollowly, Sliske stretched out the kinks in his shoulders. “Congratulations for catching me off-guard. That’s not an easy thing for someone to do.”

“You’re not as good an actor as you think you are,” Jahaan spat, more venom in his words than he’d intended. Alcohol had a bad habit of adding kindling to his fiery temper. “So what was  _ your  _ plan? Were you really going to go along with all… all this?!”

“You mean, would I have become intimate with you?” Sliske raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Is that so wrong?”

“You disgusting, sick, perverted  _ bastard _ \- of course it’s wrong!” Jahaan was trembling ever so slightly, and he prayed Sliske wouldn’t notice.

Tilting his head to one side, Sliske innocently asked, “Why?”

“Because-!” Jahaan began before he ever had a response. “It’s… deceiving! That’s not your skin!”

Raising his eyebrows, Sliske knew he’d given Jahaan enough rope to hang himself as he replied, “So you’d rather it be my form?”

The heat in Jahaan’s cheeks might as well have signed him a mockery death sentence. “That’s not… why did you even try?!”

Shrugging, Sliske replied, “I was under the impression you humans love intimacy. Your friend Ozan certainly does. I must say, it is one of the many perks of the human body, one Mahjarrat aren’t partial to, unfortunately.”

Admittedly, this curiosity caused Jahaan to falter, but he still kept a tense hold in the bowstring. “Wait, what?”

“We don’t mate how humans do,” Sliske explained, casually, as if there wasn't an arrow targeting the crystal between his eyes. “We aren’t built for it. Mahjarrat reproduction is vastly different. How Lucien ever conceived with a human woman still baffles me to this day…”

This conversation was taking a radically unexpected turn, before Jahaan remembered that he was there to kill Sliske, not discuss biology.

“Irrelevant,” he asserted. “I don’t care if you’re disguised as Romeo or Juliet themselves - you stay the FUCK away from my love life.”

“And what love life, pray tell?” Sliske taunted, his knowing laugh cutting Jahaan deeply. “Am I so wrong in saying that you’ve never even been with another person?”

“So what?” Jahaan spat. “That's my business, not yours.”

“Oh, but your business  _ is  _ my business,” Sliske taunted, knowingly, “And remember, I know you better than you know yourself… the colour of your cheeks is an  _ adorable  _ shade on you, Janny.”

That didn’t help matters for Jahaan - he gulped.

Straightening up, Sliske’s smile evaporated and his face suddenly darkened. “Now, are you going to kill me, or can I sit down? My face hurts, and I’m sure your arm is getting tired.”

Regarding Sliske carefully, Jahaan’s throat became heavy. In all honesty, yes, his arm was getting tired, and so was he. Oh gosh, was he tired.

_ Whiskey had been a mistake, _ he thought to himself, bitterly.  _ Always takes it out of me... _

Hesitantly, he began to relax the string, waiting for Sliske’s next move. When the Mahjarrat made none, Jahaan edged towards the doorway and, with a nod of his head, motioned for Sliske to take a seat on the edge of the bed. Despite the string being lose, Jahaan refused to let go of the bow completely.

“How did you know it was me, anyway?” Sliske inquired, curiously.

Lightly tapping the space between his eyes, Jahaan replied, “Your brother.”

Sliske seemed to understand, smiling with disappointed acceptance. “All good things must come to an end, I suppose. I must say though, your little dance with Ozan back in Seers Village was rather something. I believe you scared the poor man half to death.”

Jahaan’s eyes widened. “So you WERE there!”

“Indeed I was,” Sliske confirmed, smugly. “I had a grand view of the performance. I all but called for an encore.”

Jahaan shot him a deadly look. “You’re not really giving yourself a reason to live, you know.”

“Oh, but you’re reason enough!” Sliske cheered, a wry grin cracking into his features, mocking and innocent all at once. “You’re the most fun I’ve had in years, Janny.”

Jahaan shot him a glare. “Don't call me Janny.”

“Why not? It's endearing.”

“Is it? Then perhaps I should go about calling you Sissy?”

Sliske clapped his hands together. “There you go! Now you're getting into the spirit of it.”

Rolling his eyes, Jahaan rubbed his temples, really wishing he could lie down before he fell down. “Just… leave, Sliske. I don’t want anymore of your games. No shapeshifting to get under my skin. You’ve had your fun.”

Sighing, Sliske replied, “I suppose this little game has run its course, especially now that you’ve found out how to cheat. Very well, I’ll just have to find some other way to entertain myself. Oh, that reminds me…”

Carefully, Sliske removed a sealed and stamped envelope from inside his robe, and held it out to Jahaan, who was in no rush to take it. Groaning, he held it out further and insisted, “It’s from Azzy. I told him I’d fetch you. See? Purpose for my visit after all.”

Hesitantly, Jahaan snatched it out of the Mahjarrat’s grasp and flinched backwards. “What do you mean, ‘fetch me’?”

Shrugging, Sliske replied, “How should I know? I’m just the messenger, and you almost shot me for my efforts.”

Sliske standing up from the edge of the bed caused Jahaan to falter ever so slightly, and he fumbled for his bow, which only caused Sliske to chuckle. “Is this the effect I have on you?”

The tone he used made Jahaan’s skin crawl, but he masked it with a nonchalant hand on his hip. “If you’re quite done, I’m tired. We drank half the bar, and I’ll bet Mahjarrat don’t even get hangovers. So, if you could please fuck off, I’d much appreciate it.”

Laughing sharply, Sliske flashed his teeth. “Well, since you put it so politely, I guess I should get going. Directing a war of the gods requires a lot of attention, you know…”

Sliske looked as if he was going to cast a spell, but then he stopped, and looked pointedly at Jahaan. “You know, if you weren’t so stubbornly hostile, you and I would make a good team.”

Jahaan opened his mouth to respond, but didn’t quite know how.

Then, with a cackle that faded away as he did, Sliske vanished from the room in a crack of purple energy.

Letting out a pent up exhale he’d been holding in for gods knew how long, Jahaan noticed he was still shaking, squirmish in his own skin. Scattering his bow and arrow to the floor, Jahaan stumbled over to the bed and collapsed on the top sheet, asleep within seconds of hitting the mattress before he could realise how alone he now felt.

The letter from Azzanadra remained unopened on the duvet beside him until the next morning.


	21. Worlds Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 06: FATE OF THE GODS  
> Chapter 1 - Worlds Apart
> 
> The gods have returned to Gielinor, but something is preventing the arrival of Zaros. Jahaan is enlisted by Azzanadra to help bring his god back to their world, a task that would send him into the harshities of the Mahjarrat homeworld: Freneskae…

Jahaan pried himself off the duvet the next afternoon in a puddle of drool. Not morning, no… he’d long since slept through that. Wiping his face, he tried to blink some of the sleep from his eyes and turn over, attempting to push himself up off the bed and gain a vertical base once more. It was an effort, but eventually he managed to fall onto the edge of the bed and sit upright, the room swaying and swirling before him.

That’s when a quick dash to the bathroom was in order.

Splashing his face with the icy cold stream from the tap, Jahaan looked up at himself in the small mirror and laughed humourlessly at his dishevelled reflection. As he tried to straighten out his locks of hair, so too did he attempt to piece together the previous night’s antics.

The destruction to the cabinet, alongside the spew of weapons cluttering the carpet, was proof enough that it was no dream. He’d caught Sliske in his disguise, and almost ended him too. For a brief moment, he had the upper hand.

However, with dismal realisation, Jahaan realised that, even with a bow and arrow trained on Sliske’s skull, he never had the upper hand.

Not against Sliske.

It was then he saw the letter from Azzanadra on the bed.

 

It definitely started out as a trudge as he made his way over to the coordinates Azzanadra had left him. Of course, he didn’t have a compass himself, and had to make a little pit stop at a small general store, which overcharged him for the pleasure of likely being the only customer that day.

Walking definitely helped his hangover start to ebb away, and before long the arduous slog of a journey turned into quite a nice walk through some unfamiliar, though quite beautiful, forest land. He hardly saw another soul on the entire journey.

A few hours later, the outline of Azzanadra’s unique headdress came into view, along with the rest of him, and Jahaan trotted over to the waiting Mahjarrat.

“Azzanadra!” he cheerily greeted. “Sorry for the hold up. Took me a while to find this place…”

Jahaan decided Azzanadra didn’t need to know about human hangovers, though he suspected in all his years he’d encountered quite a few inebriated fellows. It was more that he didn’t want to talk about it, in case the hangover heard him and maliciously returned for round two. Not exactly a logical train of thought, but he was rolling with it regardless.

“I am glad you could make it, Jahaan,” Azzanadra smiled warmly back it him, though his hand was twitching with impatience.

“So what are you doing out here?” Jahaan asked. “You were quite vague in your letter.”

“Such things could not be trusted to pen and papyrus, for I am here under direct orders from  _ Zaros _ ,” he stated with a smirk on his face that soap and water couldn’t wash off.

Raising an eyebrow, Jahaan replied, “Alright, but what do you need me for?”

“Rejoice!” Azzanadra cheered, emphasising his words with a loud clap. “The time for Zaros' return is at hand!”

Jahaan gasped. “Zaros is  _ actually returning? _ ”

“Yes. Guthix's death was a tragedy, but it has allowed all other gods to return. There is one final obstacle preventing Zaros' arrival, however. Once more, I request your services in the name of my lord. You, and only you, are capable of removing this obstacle. While you may not always have displayed an unerring devotion to Zaros, I need you for this, World Guardian. All disagreements between us are in the past. Any doubts you may have will be answered. Today, we shall truly see if you stand with Zaros, or against him.”

_ Well, this is a lot to take in,  _ Jahaan thought to himself with an exaggerated exhale. Scratching the non-existent itch on the back of his neck was an excuse to distract himself from Azzanadra’s beady eyes, eyes that demand all, filled with palpable hope that could teeter any moment to rageful disappointment, depending on Jahaan’s response.

He did all he could to avoid meeting those eyes.

Zaros hadn’t played a major part in Jahaan’s life; he was the deity that he knew the least about, all things considered. Sure, he’d read the history books, overwhelmed by a Menaphite bias. He knew all of the Zarosian-Kharidian Wars in the Second Age. He knew about Zaros’ empire, and the rise of Zamorak that came from betraying his former master.

He knew overviews, broad opinions, and naturally, the tainted preachings from Azzanadra. He knew nothing about the deity that he could sink his teeth into, nothing he could get behind. Little information about Zaros’ beliefs or philosophies had been published. In fact, he was shrouded in so much mystery that many people believed the rumour that he was Bob the Cat, the most famous stray in all of Gielinor.

His dangerous curiosity getting the better of him, Jahaan agreed, “Sure, I'll help if I can.”

With a relieved sigh, Azzanadra’s smile grew broad and grateful. “Ever since you released me from my prison, I knew there was something different about you. I have had little reason to rely on humans, even fewer to call one friend... but you have proven yourself to me. I have faith that you will prove yourself once more. Not just to me, but to Lord Zaros himself. This will be a glorious day! Zaros awaits you through the World Gate. Will you go and assist him now?”

“Alright, but what’s the ‘World Gate’?”   
“It is a portal between realms, created by Guthix many millennia ago. While there are many portals that allow for travel from plane to plane, only the World Gate has the power to reach every plane in existence. Though, at present, it can only reach worlds that either Guthix or Zaros visited with it. To reach Zaros by any other means would require more power and time than is available to us.”

Jahaan looked all around him, scanning the barren, uninteresting surroundings. “Sooo... where’s the World Gate now?”   
“Why, it is right here, hidden in the Shadow Realm, away from prying eyes.”

“And how do we get it out of the Shadow Realm?”

There was a solid beat of hesitation from Azzanadra. “We... require the aid of another for this task.”

“Who?” there was a churning worry in the pit of Jahaan’s stomach. He had a good guess at who, but was praying to whatever gods were listening that he was wrong.

“I think you know all too well,” Azzanadra confirmed his suspicions. “I was unsure of this, but Zaros was clear.”

Jahaan’s heart dropped. “Oh please no…”

Light vanished; darkness slashed. When it all returned to normal, Sliske was standing opposite Azzanadra, sporting a smile that would almost be classed as friendly if it wasn’t for the self-satisfied glint in his eyes. With a theatrical gesture, he exclaimed, “Speak of the Mahjarrat, and he shall appear!”

Not having time for Sliske’s shit, Jahaan shot back to Azzanadra and stated, “I’m not working with him.”

“Oh come now, it’ll be fun!” Sliske’s honeyed voice dripped through everyone’s last nerve like acid. “I told you we’d make a good team.”

Begrudgingly, Azzanadra said, “We do not have a choice. Zaros was clear.”

His eyes whispered the ‘please’ that his lips missed, hidden among the explanation, “Sliske is the only one of us capable of drawing the Gate back into the material realm. I am not happy that we need him, but need him we do.”

Jahaan looked between Azzanadra and Sliske, realising that the chance of an alternative solution was growing rapidly dimmer. “Fine,” he resigned with a heavy sigh. “Let’s just get this over with. The sooner it’s done-”

“...the sooner you can, what? Go back to your aimless wanderings? Emptily threatening to kill me? Drinking with handsome strangers in bars?” Sliske completed, raising his brows with a patronising glare.

“Just tell me what needs to be doing,” Jahaan growled, instinctively taking a step back when Sliske moved towards him.

“Now now, no need to get all bothered. I just need to pull you into the Shadow Realm, is all.”

Before Jahaan could protest, Sliske grabbed his shoulder and shrouded the world in a bleak, damp cover. Cold air rattled through his lungs, but it was thick and clogging, and every movement felt like he was underwater. Everything around them had turned a dark shade of grey, shadows manifesting in threatening clouds around the trees. Azzanadra was there too, cloaked in shades. Jahaan went to call out to him, but Sliske stopped him, explaining, “He can’t hear you. Not well enough, at least, unless you feel like screaming into his ear. I doubt he’d appreciate that.”

Shadows danced around Jahaan’s form; he felt them like claws on his back. “No wonder you like this place so much. Come on, let’s get the World Gate and get out of here.”

Sliske wrung his hands together. “Now, let's not rush into things. I have a proposition for you…”

“Oh, here it comes,” Jahaan rolled his eyes. “You just can't help yourself, can you?”

“What can I say?” Sliske shrugged with a wide grin plastered across his features. “I am who I am. At least I'm consistent.”

“Aren’t you in a rush to get Zaros back?”

Laughing, Sliske replied, “Zaros has waited for thousands of years. A few more minutes won’t kill him.”

“You know, I don’t see you falling over yourself in worship of him like Azzanadra does,” Jahaan pointed out. “What do you  _ really  _ think of Zaros?”

Letting out a short, sharp laugh, Sliske replied, “Azzanadra is far too blinkered by fealty for his own good. But of all the gods, I like Zaros most. He just gets me, you know? He helped to make the world my playground. But he's been gone a long time and we're all getting on just fine without him. We don't need him. We don't need any gods.”

If Jahaan wasn’t mistaken, he detected a hint of urgency in his words, a slightly higher tone that betrayed something layered beneath his usually poised and conceited dialect.

“Oh, but I suppose we do need a sadistic Mahjarrat?” Jahaan countered, hoping to catch the tone again, to confirm his suspicions.

“This isn't about me.”

“Isn’t it?” Jahaan put his hands on his hips, a knowing smile tearing through Sliske, his body alive with confidence. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you don’t want Zaros to return. Is your loyalty that fickle, or are you scared claiming ascension might have some repercussions?”

“Loyalty goes both ways!” Sliske protested. “I see the truth, unlike pious Azzanadra over there. Oh, I still follow orders like a good little Mahjarrat, but I've always taken them more as…  _ guidelines _ . I like to be creative.”

“So did Zaros order you to kill Guthix?”

Sliske’s hand danced around him. “That was more my...  _ interpretation _ . Zaros wanted to return, but I saw the futility in bargaining with Guthix. I suspect Zaros knew that, but he's not exactly forthcoming.”

“And your tournament for the gods?” Jahaan inquired with interrogative undertones.

Sliske’s smirk was wicked. “Well, a Mahjarrat needs some fun too, you know. But Zaros wanted a diversion, so I gave him one. While the other gods are busy with their infighting, Zaros can return unchallenged and none will be the wiser.”

“So everything you've done has been for Zaros? You ARE still a loyal Zarosian?”

Contemplating this, Sliske replied, “After a fashion.”

“But now you're suggesting, what, that I should sabotage Zaros' return?” he shook his head in bafflement. “What game are you playing, Sliske?”

“What can I say?” Sliske’s palms were splayed outwards. “I'm complicated.”

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Jahaan could feel a headache forming. “Thing is, you don’t exactly have a trustworthy reputation. Why should I even hear you out?”

“Because this time, trust or whatever you might think of me isn’t a factor,” Sliske’s smile was tight; that urgent voice was back. “Through that Gate you're on your own. Neither I nor Azzanadra can follow you. Ask Azzanadra if you don't believe me. I'm not fool enough to so openly disobey Zaros's orders. It will be just you and Zaros. You can see for yourself what he's like, and make up your own mind. All I'm suggesting is that you don't have to do what is asked of you. You always have a choice. As World Guardian, even he cannot force you - the decision WILL be yours. If you like Zaros, then by all means help him. But if you're opposed to him, now is your best opportunity to get rid of him for good, or at least weaken him further. The point is that, ultimately, HIS fate is in YOUR hands. And that, to me, is such sweet irony - it's what I live for.”

Jahaan looked up into Sliske’s eyes, trying to read them, but they were in a language he couldn’t decipher. So, he was hesitant to take the snake’s words at face value. If they were said by anyone else, he’d admit that they have a valid point, and that keeping an open mind was wise. Sliske had an ulterior motive though, and it pushed him away from rational thinking, into blindly going against anything and everything he said.

Which was stupid.

_ That’s stupid, _ Jahaan confirmed to himself, the throbbing in his head beating in time to his pulse.  _ He has a point. _

So, aloud, Jahaan agreed, “I'll keep that in mind.”

The smile Sliske returned wasn’t all that reassuring. “That is all I could ask for. Now, that's enough prattling - let's get this Gate back in the material realm.”

Sliske waved his arms outwards, then towards the World Gate; he looked like he was straining ever so slightly, like the look of someone lifting a rather large parcel but not wanting to show the struggle. Soon enough though, Sliske, Jahaan and the World Gate were back in the material realm, out of the clutches of the shadows.

The comparatively warm air of normality flooded back into Jahaan’s lungs, and he breathed it in greedily.

However, Jahaan didn’t get much time to enjoy before Azzanadra pressed, “What was the delay?”

“Oh, calm down, Azzy,” Sliske rolled his eyes. “Zaros isn’t going anywhere.”

Shooting Sliske a look, Azzanadra ushered Jahaan to one side and whispered, “You were in the Shadow Realm with Sliske for quite some time. I hope he wasn't filling your head with his nonsense.”

Understanding it was more of a question than a statement, Jahaan decided to spare Azzanadra Sliske’s poison. “Just his usual spiel.”

There was a hint of relief on the Mahjarrat’s face. Wryly, Azzanadra replied, “That can be damning enough. They don’t call him ‘serpent tongue’ for nothing.”

Obviously feeling left out, Sliske jeeringly exclaimed, “Big Boss to Bunny Ears! Big Boss to Bunny Ears! Come in, Bunny Ears!”

Azzanadra shot around to him. “Do not mock my hat! It deserves respect. It is a sign of my devotion, my position in the church.”

“A church that ceased to exist along with the Empire. It's about time you faced up to that.”

Azzanadra clenched his fists into balls; Jahaan could see the magic quietly pulsing at his fingertips, and prepared to dive out of the way if things escalated. Fortunately, Azzanadra managed to calm himself slightly, and the energy faded away. “One of these days I'm going to melt that smug grin off your face.”

Turning his attention to something productive - the World Gate - Azzanadra began altering the dials and coordinates on its surface, symbols written in an ancient language long-since dead and buried, but Azzanadra seemed to decipher it.

“I've taken the liberty of setting the Gate to where you'll be going,” he stated, standing back to admire the Gate as it whirred with a comforting hum. It wasn’t the largest of doorways; Jahaan would have to bend to get through. If he looked closely at the wavering, pulsing green energy that made up the window to the other worlds, he could make out shapes on the other side. Vague outlines, mind you. Only the bare basics. But it was surreal in its own right, to see into another reality. The feeling gave Jahaan goosebumps.

Azzanadra continued, “Once on the other side, everything is up to you. I am under orders to remain here, and I will ensure Sliske never leaves my sight.”

“Why the hostility, Azzy?” Sliske’s eyes flashed with… something. “We used to be such good friends, you and I. Back in the good old days in the Empire, back on Freneskae...”

_ Freneskae _ , the name snapped Jahaan back to the task at hand. “Is that where the World Gate is taking me?”

“Freneskae, yes!” Azzanadra cheered. “It is where all Mahjarrat originate. The untrained eye may call it ‘desolate’ and ‘inhospitable’, but a Mahjarrat can see its true beauty.”

At this, Sliske scoffed.

Raising a challenging eyebrow, Azzanadra said, “Something you wish to share, Sliske?”

“Freneskae is such a dull place; there's nothing to do there!” he whined. “Just rocks and lava, lava and rocks… so bland, so boring. Not like here - Gielinor is so much more fun!”

Pointedly ignoring Sliske, Azzanadra explained, “Zaros originates on Freneskae too, like the Mahjarrat. He was able to give us such an insight into our tribe, to provide us with the means to rejuvenate ourselves sparingly. You can see why we left Icthlarin for him. He is our progenitor, of sorts.”

Sliske rolled his eyes. “Oh yes, he’s our  _ ‘saviour’ _ , alright.”

“Are you really still hung up on that?”

“Zaros wanting to know our every move? Our every thought? Let's just say I'm not looking forward to having to file reports again.”

There was a trace of a smile on Azzanada's face. “As I recall, you always managed to do your own thing regardless.”

A thin smile crept into Sliske’s lips, and his eyes lightened. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

Azzanadra motioned for Jahaan to approach the World Gate, which he did with slight trepidation. “Step through when you are ready, World Guardian. The Empty Lord awaits…”

Bracing himself, Jahaan took one last look back at Azzanadra for reassurance, then one last look at Sliske, who’s eyes were fixed upon him, like he was watching an actor on the stage.

“Alright,” he exhaled deeply, hands resting on both his swords. “Here goes nothing…”


	22. Freneskae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 06: FATE OF THE GODS  
> Chapter 2 - Freneskae
> 
> The gods have returned to Gielinor, but something is preventing the arrival of Zaros. Jahaan is enlisted by Azzanadra to help bring his god back to their world, a task that would send him into the harshities of the Mahjarrat homeworld: Freneskae…

Freneskae. A place nightmares are derived from. A hollow, empty plane of existence, where life comes in the form of threat and danger, and where nature actively works against all inhabitants, almost maliciously. Colour is absent; grey rocks protrude into a black sky, looming over an ashen floor. The only vibrant colour comes from the crackling slashes of lightning that tear through the foreboding sky, or the scarlets of lava and fire, hailing from the heavens or slithering across the ground.

As soon as Jahaan reemerged on the other side of the world gate, he tested the air on his tongue, and quickly realised how abhorrent it was compared to the glorious oxygen he’d left behind on Gielinor. Thick and cloggy, a blend of smoke and ash, with a pinch of copper, he gathered the air was at least slightly toxic to his human lungs. Quickly, he took out the cowl from his backpack and fashioned it into a face mask, something that took away the worst effects of Freneskae’s atmosphere.

Between coughs, Jahaan called out, “Hello?”

There was no reply, only the continuous rumbling of his surroundings.

“Is anyone there?” he tried again, pressing the cowl to his face. The heat of the lava pools beneath the rocky platform he’d landed on radiated upwards; he didn’t know how long he’d last before having to ditch his armour. Figuring that was a last resort, he pressed on ahead, carefully starting along the long and winding path ahead of him, hoping that Zaros was close by.

Suddenly, a lightning bolt struck a protrusion of rock hanging over the pathway, causing large pieces to crumble and fall, the weight of them breaking the apparently fragile pathway in front of Jahaan. Shocked, he fell backwards, clutching onto the ground under him for dear life, watching in horror as his lovely carved pathway suddenly became a lot more difficult to traverse.

Once his heartbeat calmed to a steadier pace, Jahaan clambered to his feet and carefully edged to the gap, peering into the fiery abyss below.

With a heavy heart, Jahaan realised he’d have to jump it. Sizing up the distance between the rock-face was promising - it wasn’t all that far - but considering how the pathway just crumbled moments ago, he didn’t exactly trust it not to break again under his weight. However, there were no alternate routes.

Gulping, Jahaan walked back a few strides and braced himself.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Jahaan bolted forwards, leaping over the distance and rolling to safety on the other side. Well, the safety was only momentary, for the ground protested at the shockwave of his fall and decided to start dropping chunks down into the lava below. These breakaways quickly chased Jahaan up the pathway, causing him to scramble forwards until he reached the comfort of a larger, thicker platform to collapse on.

Gasping for breath, Jahaan peered behind him and saw the ravine he’d created in his wake.

“No going back now…” he muttered to himself, picking himself up from the ground and soldiering on.

 

Jahaan didn’t know how long he trekked through the natural hazards of Freneskae, directionless and suffering under the heat. He walked on, not exactly knowing where he was going, hoping to stumble into something of note sooner or later, before the temperature took its toll too much.

All the while, he could feel a…  _ presence _ . Something surrounding him, there but never there. Something watching him,  _ stalking  _ him, but he dismissed it as paranoia in this alien world. Occasionally, he thought he saw it manifest into a faint, flickering purple cloud. But again, he dismissed this as a trick of the light, or an afterglow from the flames surrounding him. But without even knowing it, he allowed it to guide him through Freneskae.

To the east, he saw what looked like a carved cave opening, and that purple light seemed to be guarding it. Jahaan blinked, but there it remained. He looked away and looked back, just to confirm it wasn’t a mirage. Still, it did not disappear. He felt it calling him towards the cave, mesmerizing him. There was only a rocky bridge keeping the two of them apart. Without removing his eyes from the purple glow, Jahaan carefully edged his way across the divide and followed the orb inside the cave.

 

Inside, architecture seemed to have breached the barren, empty world of Freneskae. There were carvings here, patterns painted into marbleized floors. Properly constructed bridges connected each area of the large chamber, with chains for railings, and stairwells that went beyond crude misshapen rocks. From the looks of it, Jahaan deduced it to be a temple of some sort. A sanctum, not unlike the one Azzanadra mentioned he contact Zaros in.

Realising the purple orb was likely Zaros himself, he felt safe enough to call out his name again. “Zaros? Did you lead me here?”

Alas, more silence, save for the swishes of lava Jahaan could hear in the distance behind him. At least this sanctum was cooler, protecting him from the harsh climate outside.

Not wanting to leave anytime soon, Jahaan made his way into the adjoining room, wanting to explore further.

Inside this new vast chamber were four crystalised pillars, shining like diamonds in the dimly lit cavern. However, Jahaan only got to marvel at their beauty for fleeting moments before an ominous hissing sound echoed around the chamber, sending chills down his spine. Gulping, he ventured, “Z-Zaros…?”

The sound did not sound like a god, nor did it sound like anything he’d ever encountered before, a low death-rattle submerged in the sharp, violent hissing of an otherworldly predator.

Fearing the worst, Jahaan drew his swords and tried to calm his breathing as he entered a fighting stance, his eyes darting all around the chamber to try and pinpoint where the first attack would come from.

Haunting eyes glowed from the hollow entrance dead ahead of him, and before he could register what exactly was hungrily staring him down, it charged, spearing Jahaan to the ground. He just about rolled out of the way before it’s talons could rip his face off, not even managing to get a good look at the monster before Jahaan scrambled away, wildly swinging his swords in defence. Suddenly, a blast of magic smashed into his back, knocking the wind right out of him as he was thrown forwards, crashing into the marble pillar he’d admired so recently.

A crooked, crimson fist punched through the marble pillar above his head; Jahaan just about managed to duck in time, instinct taking over.

It was only after pushing off the pillar and gaining some distance between him and his attackers did he finally take in what he was up against. These monsters were the stuff of nightmares, like Freneskae embodied. Four of them, twisted and warped variations of the other. One a blood-red horror, contorted horns above its head. Another looked like it was made of ice, only nowhere as fragile. The next, purple with shadows dancing around its essence, its wings tattered and shredded. The last, in contrast, had rather beautiful wings, reminiscent of that of an aviansie.

One similarity linked them all, and it was their striking resemblance to Nex, one of Zaros’ most loyal soldiers, and a nihil by origin. Jahaan did not know much of the nihil - such creatures were not native to Gielinor, and Nex was the only one his world had ever encountered, as far as he was aware. He only knew them to be creations of Zaros, abominations forged from the warped life essence of other races. Extremely powerful, deadly pack animals. He’d have to take them on one by one if at all possible.

Shuffling backwards, Jahaan tightened the grip on his swords and braced himself for combat. As soon as he did so, they all disappeared back into the caverns on the wall, quick as a flash.

Wise to their charging tactics by now, Jahaan concocted a strategy. Well, ‘strategy’ makes it sound well thought out and tactical; this was more of a fleeting idea that Jahaan desperately hoped would work in his favour.

Readying himself, he waited, waited, until finally the crimson nihil charged him again - this one did not seem to favour magic, instead lunging with its dagger-like claws and a shrill scream.

In one fluid motion, Jahaan side-stepped its charge and spun around, the velocity of the twisting motion increasing the power of his sword swipe immensely. Before the nihil could turn or retreat, Jahaan had drawn a large gash down its back, causing it to wail out in agony. His second sword swung lower, aiming for the back of its knees, nearly cutting the limb clean off. The nihil staggered and stumbled forward, its patented charging attack literally cut off at the knees. It lunged forwards again, but buckled under its own weight, unable to cover much ground in the state it was in. With futility, it tried flapping its wings to gain height, but one remained static, while the other waved about weakly; Jahaan figured that he’d cut deep enough into the creatures back to break the wingbone, perhaps damaging the nihil’s spine in the process.

Not complaining, he raised his sword aloft to finish the wounded creature with a decapitating strike, but the sudden overwhelming coldness of his palms put pay to that. Dropping the blade with a shriek, Jahaan saw ice crystals splintering from his fingertips, starting to melt. Looking around him, he saw the ice sculpted nihil ready another charge. Shaking off the rest of the ice from his frozen hand, Jahaan swiftly picked up his sword and dashed behind the a marble pillar just as the next blast was fired.

He peered out behind the pillar, only to be met with another charge of ice that cracked his pillar defence.

_ I can’t get close to it, _ he concluded, dropping his swords and removing his shieldbow from around his shoulders and loading it with an arrow. Just as he stepped backwards to aim, he was startled by a roar to his left, and taken down by a barge from the avianse-looking nihil. Coughing, Jahaan quickly scurried back behind a pillar closer to the end wall, trying to collect himself.  _ Okay, so they all do the charging thing. Right… _

Seeing as the centre pathways seemed to be their dedicated charging territory - they ran from one hole in the wall to another opposite - Jahaan dubbed that a ‘no-go’ zone and focused on ranging from a distance.

The first few arrows were at least on target, but none of them connected with the nihil; its ice attack shattered them before impact. Then, an idea sparked in Jahaan’s mind, and he rummaged through his rucksack for a tinderbox.

The flaming arrows definitely gave the nihil pause, and any that connected with its flesh did considerable damage. They seemed to be frightened of the fiery ammunition hurling towards them.

So focused was he on ranging the ice nihil that he didn’t notice the crimson one that had crawled up to him until it grabbed onto his leg.

“SON OF A BITCH,” he shrieked, startled beyond words, instinctively stabbing the arrow he was about to load into his bow right through the nihil’s skull. Gasping for breath, he tried to shake off the vice-like claw that, even in death, the nihil had attached onto him, eventually taking to prising the fingers apart one by one. 

After collecting himself, it only took a few more arrows to take down the ice nihil.

_ Two down, two left. Who’s next… _

Delicately, he stepped into the ‘no-go zone’ in the centre of the room in an attempt to lure out one of the nihils. Instead of charging on land this time, however, the avianse made use of its beautiful wings and soared through the sky, causing Jahaan to duck and jump out of the way. The first arrow he fired from the ground didn’t come close to hitting its mark, and when he reached for another, he found the quiver empty.

“Shit,” he cursed, scanning the other side of the room to see all the arrows scattered out of reach. As too were his swords, which he’d abandoned in favour of his bow. Scurrying out of the way of the nihil’s blast of smoke - and instinctively tightening his face mask to protect from its choking effect - Jahaan unsheathed his dagger and tried to come up with a plan.

_ It’s high in the air, and the arrows are right underneath it. I wouldn’t stand a chance. Maybe the swords? Ah but how can-wait a second… _

Peering out from behind his cover, he noted the grooves on the wall next to the nihil looked like it could provide considerable purchase, if approached in the right way.

_ Just like Al Kharid, just like with Ozan… _

The words repeated in his head in a comforting chorus, and his plan was decided upon.

Without allowing himself another second to talk himself out of it, Jahaan shot out from behind the pillar and dashed across the room, too fast for the charging nihil to register him, and just fast enough to avoid being it by the nihil’s smoke attack. It tracked him across the room, and Jahaan his to nimble maneuver in odd patterns to avoid being struck, but he made it to the wall. Leaping in the air, his foot connected with a groove and he ricochet off it, propelling towards the nihil, dagger poised and ready.

With a roar, he buried the dagger deep into the nihil’s neck, and the two of them tumbled to the ground. The nihil leaked weird fluid from the wound, but didn’t seem quite dead yet, and not wanting to repeat the same mistake he made with the crimson one, Jahaan stabbed the nihil a few more times for good measure until its hissing stopped.

Shaking the gross fluid from the dagger tip with a cringe, Jahaan sheathed the little blade and went to pick up his swords. He reminded himself to thank Ozan for the rooftop parkour training as soon as he got back to Gielinor.

Suddenly, the room darkened; a hollow rattle was all he heard before he was knocked to the floor. Quickly, Jahaan picked himself up and dashed for his swords, positioning himself in the corner of the room, breathless and aching. His vision was greatly impaired now as the light in the room kept dimming in and out, as if darkness had become sentient and was working against him. The shadows had taken over.

This was something Jahaan was all too familiar with.

Clenching the grip on his swords tightly, he tried to strategize on the fly the best way to combat shadow magic.

He drew a blank.

_ How do you fight an enemy you can’t see? _

Jahaan was beginning to panic; darkness wasn’t something he was overly fond of, especially when he shared the company of a bloodthirsty monster. Panicking did him no good, as in his flurry of rapid breaths and erratic heartbeats, the nihil landed a winding blow on his chest.

Doubling over, Jahaan all but coughed up a lung.

_ If I can’t see it, maybe I can hear it… _

To its detriment, the nihil was loud, a constant rattling and hissing from its foul excuse for a mouth. Jahaan could hear it scuttling at the other end of the room, no doubt preparing to strike again, and soon.

Jahaan could only see its shadow in the low light.

So, Jahaan steadied his breathing, tried to drown out his heartbeat, and moved towards the centre of the room. He closed his eyes, sacrificing vision in favour of his other four senses, particularly hearing - a crude variation of echolocation.

The scurrying gave it away, encroaching faster and faster and faster - until it was upon him.

The nihil was fast, dodging the first swipe of Jahaan’s sword… but it wasn’t fast enough for his second. Jahaan slashed a deep gouge through its midsection, causing the creature to roar in agony. Capitalising, Jahaan lunged forward and buried his other blade through its torso, twisting it inside, before slicing upwards as he removed it. This proved fatal; the nihil was dead before it hit the ground.

Catching his breath, Jahaan laughed breathlessly to himself as he examined the four nihil corpses. That was until he was startled back into sanity by the marble pillars glowing and humming around him. Then, at the other end of the cavern, a small doorway with ancient patterns carved into it opened, the heat of Freneskae flooding inside… and the mysterious purple cloud greeting him outside.

After collecting his arrows and various other pieces of equipment he’d scattered about the chamber, Jahaan headed for the doorway.

 

When Jahaan emerged through the other side of the door, and had climbed a cliff face immediately blocking his way, he noted he was now at the top of what appeared to be a volcano, where ash fell from the sky like snow. But he couldn’t have been prepared for the type of creature that he instantly met with.

It was… humanoid, in a sense. A collection of large rocks tied together through the bonds of molten lava, some which spilled out of its mouth as it breathed.

Breathed… slept, perhaps. It looked almost... peaceful, clawing fingers clenching slightly as if it were in the midst of a dream. It’s eyes - eyes that were bigger than the entirety of Jahaan twice over - were closed. That was all that Jahaan could see of it - a large head and one hand resting against the mountain-top, the rest no doubt extending deep into the rocks below.

Jahaan edged closer to inspect, but the purple cloud materialised in front of him. In a deep, echoed voice, it commanded, “Stop!”

Halting in his tracks, Jahaan let out a deep, shuddering breath as he knew exactly who he was face to… purple cloudy thing… to. “Zaros.”

“Yes,” the orb confirmed.

Feeling the pain in his muscles serve as a sharp reminder, he demanded, “Did you send those nihil after me? I know they’re your creations.”

“I did not,” Zaros assured. “I promise, I led you the safest way possible to reach this volcano.”

“That was the SAFEST route? Are you kidding?!” it boggled Jahaan’s mind how the Mahjarrat ever survived this place. Not sure where on the purple cloud Zaros’ eyes were, he took for looking somewhere near the top as he inquired, “Why have you led me here?”

“It was necessary,” Zaros was not an entity of many words, it seemed.

The sleeping figure beside them clenched its fist, its head lulling to one side as it croaked out an inhuman groan. Looking towards it, Jahaan inquired, “What's it doing?”

“She stirs in her sleep,” Zaros explained.

“ _ She? _ ” Jahaan choked. “That thing in the crater is a  _ she _ ?”

“She is the elder god, Mah... and her dreams can be violent. We should talk elsewhere. May we?”

Gazing around them, Jahaan didn’t exactly know where this ‘elsewhere’ could be, or how it could be any safer than anywhere else on Freneskae, but he rolled with it. “O~kay…”

Suddenly, the purple orb shot towards him, burying itself in Jahaan’s chest. Crying out, Jahaan fell to the ground, and the world became black.

 

When he… ‘woke up’... Jahaan was…

Well, he didn’t quite know.

Everything was white.

Everything.

There was nothing around them, no volcano, no sleeping Mah.

Just… emptiness, and the purple orb of Zaros.

“Where are we?”

“Inside your mind,” Zaros bluntly replied.

Scrunching his brow, Jahaan asked, “How’d you get inside my mind?”

“Have no fear, World Guardian. I would not enter your mind without consent, nor could I. I have only brought you here. I am outside, looking in. We needed a safe place to talk where she could not sense me. That is all.”

“So we’re still on the volcano?”

“Yes,” Zaros gravely replied, “And when you awaken, we will have to deal with Mah.”

Zaros continued, as if he could read Jahaan’s mind (which in this place, who knew?), to say, “You have doubts. Know this - I will never lie to you. And in this place you would sense if I did. Therefore, whatever your questions, I would answer them.”

Jahaan couldn’t shake the terrifying reality of Mah just inches away from where his body had collapsed. “Are you sure we have time for a chat? I can’t really defend myself while I'm here.”

“Fear not, World Guardian. While we cannot idle here indefinitely, we have time. You have traversed this world for me; the least I can reward you with is knowledge.”

_ Well, that’s an offer I can’t refuse,  _ Jahaan thought to himself, excitement building alongside his thirst for knowledge. A one-on-one conversation with one of the most powerful deities to ever set foot in Gielinor, and hopefully without this one being assassinated in the process.  _ Where to begin... _

The Zarosian religion was quite a mystery to Jahaan; he’d only really encountered it in the fanatical form of Azzanadra. He knew of the Empire, of the Zarosian-Khandrian War… but that was pretty much it. So, he started with the basics. “What’s your philosophy?”

“It is my belief that everything that occurs in life - both good and bad - should be used to forge oneself, to better oneself. If we give in to weakness, then we do not deserve the gift of life. Where Guthix sought balance in the world, I seek balance in oneself. One must strive to increase in power, but also in knowledge of how to wield that power. The younger gods have tended to fulfil only one of these things. You, World Guardian, fulfil both of these criteria.”

Jahaan felt oddly honoured, but he wasn’t about to let vague compliments cloud his judgement. “And what’s your plan? What do you strive for?”

Zaros did not falter in his reply, like it had been rehearsed. “First, I must obtain a new body and regain my divine status. With it, I shall return to my ultimate ambition.”

A worrisome remark. “...Which is?”

“I intend to claim my birthright and become an elder god. Only then will I be able to stand equal to the universe's creators and speak on behalf of mortals.”

Jahaan blinked.  _ Zaros wanted to ascend beyond godhood? _ For the first time, Jahaan considered what Sliske had been saying about not blindly following Zaros’ commands, for he wasn’t too sure how he felt about Zaros becoming an ultimate power like that, a top tier god, with all the trimmings that entailed...

Hesitantly, he asked, “Why do you want to become an elder god? Don’t you have enough power already?”

“Not everything is about power, World Guardian,” Zaros’ tone was neutral, but assertive. “Power will mean nothing when the Great Revision is upon us.”

Zaros really didn’t help the image that he was an ominous being of darkness with casual comments like that. “W-What’s the Great Revision?”

“All in due time.”

_ Helpful _ . “And where are the other elder gods?”

“They are where they have always been since the creation of Gielinor. On Gielinor.”

_ On Gielinor? _ This was a lot for Jahaan to process.

Taking a deep breath, Jahaan decided to give Zaros a chance. No red flags had flown so far. Well, the whole ‘elder god’ and ‘Great Revision’ thing wasn’t all that comforting, but even so, he was inclined to trust the deity. For now, at least. He seemed to be honest, in his blunt assertiveness. “Okay, so what do you need me to do?”

Zaros then shapeshifted into the form of Guthix. “The power Guthix bestowed upon you before his death dampens divine magic and energy. It is my belief that this power will also shield my presence from Mah. If she were to sense me and fully awaken, that would have dire consequences... for everyone. Beneath her, at the planet's core, I will be able to create a new corporeal form for myself. I wish for you to take me there, or to go there in my stead.”

“Why’s it so important that Mah can’t sense you?” Jahaan inquired, still trying to wrap his head around it all.

“Mah is my creator,” Zaros explained. There was a hint of a sigh in his tone. “Without her I would not exist, but she is like a child. She is an elder god, the youngest of five. Yet the anima of this plane was not sufficient to nourish them all, and Mah was malformed. She was born without memory or knowledge, only instinct. After finally clawing her way to the surface, her first instinct was to pour what little energy she had into the creation of me and my companion. To her I was akin to a child's doll. She is mentally fractured, but I have intellect, and I could not abide her possessiveness. As soon as she started to weaken, I left. She will want me back. If she cannot have that, she will try to destroy me.”

Jahaan didn’t know how much time had passed since he’d been lost inside his own mind, but it had been long enough. A part of him was prolonging the inevitable, of facing whatever the consequences were for disturbing an elder god. Common sense dictates they would not be pleasant, and the nihil had already exhausted him. “One last thing… tell me about your connection to the Mahjarrat. I’ve only heard bits and pieces from some of your followers.”

“The Mahjarrat did not exist when I left this place, but when I first encountered them I knew instantly that we shared kindred,” Zaros explained, taking the form of Wahisietel as he continued, “Their name means 'the children of Mah'. Their crystals mark their divine origin. They were unmistakably relations to myself.”

He began to shapeshift and cycle through the forms of Akthanakos, Lucien and Zemouregal as he spoke. “I saw them as sons and sought to protect them. Divine creations are more fragile than you realise. Their race is the epitome of potential, but their fate is also sealed.”

Then, Zaros took the form of Icthlarin, a jarring change from the Mahjarrat mould. “Had he known what he was truly dealing with, Icthlarin may never have brought them to Gielinor. He tried to reign in their nature, and it was not long before one of their number broke free. It was easy for me to convince that breakaway of my superiority.”

“Who was the breakaway Mahjarrat?” Jahaan inquired.

Zaros took the leering form of Sliske. “Sliske.”

Rolling his eyes, Jahaan muttered, “Of course it was Sliske…”

Jahaan recalled the book Wahisietel had given him, about the soldier in the Menaphite Pantheon’s service who encountered Sliske in the wars of the Second Age. Icthlarin had stolen Sliske’s wights and sent them to the afterlife, something the Mahjarrat did not take too kindly too. The rest, as they say, is history.

Taking the form of Icthlarin again, Zaros continued, “Not all Mahjarrat chose to leave Icthlarin's service, but the few that remained did not last long. In a desperate final act, the desert god Tumeken devastated his own lands to discourage me. I was given pause, and ended my campaign. I realised that I had become what I was fighting against. From that point on, I slowly started to remove my presence from the Empire I had created. I provided the Mahjarrat with the means to rejuvenate themselves on Gielinor - something of which Icthlarin was incapable, for he did not understand them. And I encouraged them to be less wasteful with their rituals. If they were to become leaders in the Empire, they had to endure.”

“And what of Sliske?” Jahaan pressed. Despite himself, he had a vested interest by this point.

Again, Zaros took upon the mantle of Sliske. “Sliske's loyalty has only ever been to himself. When our goals align, he can prove useful, but his recent exploits are not something I can condone.”

“Do you intend to kill him?”

“I cannot stand as both judge and executioner. I leave it to those he has wronged to bring him to any justice they feel he deserves.”

A loaded statement, Jahaan found. “Did you want him to kill Guthix?”

“I did not,” Zaros assured.

Jahaan did not sense any hint of dishonesty from Zaros, though he did have every reason to lie. Regardless, Jahaan stated, “I believe you.”

“I am glad.”

Suddenly, the ground started shaking, causing Jahaan to stumble.

“Enough talk, World Guardian,” Zaros’ voice remained stoic among the quaking. “Though Mah only stirs in her sleep, her nightmares will manifest and attack on sight, and her cries of pain will cripple you. You need only survive until her terrors subside. Only then will it be safe for us to proceed. But first, you must choose whether or not to allow me in.”

Jahaan hesitated. “Come again?”

“If you allow me in, I can lend you my strength to survive Mah's onslaught. I will not go beyond what you permit, and will leave once she is quelled or should you ask it of me. Do not let me in, and I cannot help. You put both our lives in jeopardy, and above that risk the fate of the very universe. Make your choice. We are out of time.”

_ Well, talk about a loaded choice, _ Jahaan thought to himself, then realised Zaros’ could probably hear him. “Okay, go for it.”

“Thank you for trusting me,” With that, the purple orb shot into Jahaan once more, causing his consciousness to falter. When he opened his eyes, the blasting heat and rocky mountain top of Freneskae greeted him. Picking himself up and dusting himself off, Jahaan secured the cowl tighter around his mouth and nose. He could feel a burdensome energy churning around inside of him, partly tickling, partly aching.

_ Nope, I’ll never get used to that... _

“So where are we going?” Jahaan didn’t sound all that enthused about traipsing through Freneskae again, but needs must.

“To a place I refer to as the Elder Halls,” Zaros’ voice echoed inside Jahaan’s mind, rattling with purpose. “I require some of Mah's elder energy to be woven into a new corporeal form for me to inhabit. This new body must be a dark simulacrum! A light simulacrum will reject my essence.”

“Okay, Elder Halls, dark simulacrum, got it,” Jahaan repeated in confirmation. “Lead the way…”


	23. Nightmare at the Cradle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 06: FATE OF THE GODS  
> Chapter 3 - Nightmare at the Cradle
> 
> The gods have returned to Gielinor, but something is preventing the arrival of Zaros. Jahaan is enlisted by Azzanadra to help bring his god back to their world, a task that would send him into the harshities of the Mahjarrat homeworld: Freneskae…

Seeing as lava was part of Freneskae’s decor as much as grey rocks and sleeping elder gods were, Jahaan wasn’t surprised when the volcano he was climbing down erupted. He figured it was par for the course at this point. A sort of, ‘what more could possibly go wrong?’ cavalier attitude. Such a mindset helped him feel slightly less terrified as the red hot lava flowed down the side of the volcano and magma spew out of the top, pouring down in a large stream of fiery death. Jahaan found himself dodging these alongside the random balls of fire that rained from the sky and the vents in the ground that expelled boiling hot steam.

Freneskae was a lovely place.

The rain became rocks, the sky filled with a choking smoky powder and the air warmed quicker than the bonfires of Menaphos Worker District. Almost as soon as lightning had struck a clifftop, Freneskae became illuminated. In the distance, thick gray smoke billowed upwards, shielding the world with a veil of darkness as the smoke swallowed up the whole sky. The glowing embers lept and twirled in a fiery dance, twinkling like stars in the hot swirling air before cascading downwards like gleeful pyrefiends.

 

It wasn’t too far into their journey that a strange, towering creature emerged from behind a rock face, lumbering towards Jahaan with bared teeth and too many arms. Its skin was a putrid yellow colour, a purple shell covered in spikes armouring its back. Claws as long as swords ended each arm; it didn’t have legs, but that didn’t stop it from moving at a rather daunting pace in his general direction.

Jahaan cowered back, mouth hung agape. “What… is THAT?!”

“That is a manifestation of Mah’s nightmares,” Zaros explained, his tone too calm for what the situation required. “Just as she dreamed the Mahjarrat into existence, so too her nightmares become sentient, into ‘muspah’. They are very dangerous.”

“Yes, I can see that!” Jahaan snapped back, drawing his swords and crouching into a fighting stance. When the muspah charged, Jahaan swung his sword in fearsome retaliation, and the blade did indeed hit its target, but it seemed to… pass through? The muspah shrugged it off as if he’d hit it with a daisy. Valiantly, Jahaan tried again, and again, until he had to dive out of the way from a crushing attack from one of its many limbs.

“Your blade will do no good here,” Zaros informed, bluntly.

Panting for breath, Jahaan kept up the defensive as he replied, “I should range it?”

“No. It’s only weakness is the Ancient Magicks.”

This… did not feel Jahaan with glee. “Zaros, I don’t even know the regular magicks, let alone the ancient ones!”

“You do not, but I do,” Zaros hinted, and soon enough Jahaan pieced two and two together. Sheathing his swords, he shot out a hand towards the muspah and unleashed a fierce battle cry.

...and nothing happened.

Eyes wide, Jahaan was too startled to properly react to the muspah’s charge and caught a glancing blow that sent him hurtling to the ground.

Coughing down the Freneskaen air didn’t help matters. “I thought that would work!” Jahaan growled, pushing himself to his feet. “Why didn’t it work?!”

“Magic is more than just an action,” Zaros explained, “It is a feeling. You must believe your motions, otherwise nothing will result. Focus. I have provided you with the power. You must channel it yourself.”

Gulping, Jahaan kept as much distance as he could from the muspah as he could while his thoughts raced.  _ Okay, focus. The ancient elements are shadow, smoke, ice and… and blood, that’s it! Right, let’s try ice. I can do this. I can do this… _

Then, from behind him, another muspah spawned, shrieking with the wrath of Mah.

Cursing wildly in every tongue he knew, he desperately fought to focus, to not let panic overcome him. 

_ Just… pretend it’s a fire spell, _ he internally tried to rationalize.  _ Not that I was ever any good at those, but the feeling should be the same…. right? _

 

Jahaan was all but hurled back like a projectile when the first surge of ice magic shot from his palms and careened into the muspah. If the creature’s painful roars were anything to go by, he’d hit the mark. Then again, he could have just angered it further.

Jahaan didn’t think too much into this before he channeled his next spell. Ice seemed to prove effective, so why fix what isn’t broken? The blast shot from his hands in a haphazard, barely controlled fashion, but it caught the creature’s leg. The weight of magic was something Jahaan wasn’t used to; it weighed more than his sword did by a great deal. Then again, Jahaan reasoned that this was because he hadn’t exactly gotten the hang of controlling his attacks yet.

Deadly precision would be nice, but as long as he hit the damn thing, he was content. Focusing on one muspah at a time seemed like a wise strategy, so Jahaan evaded the second’s charges as he shot small but powerful ice spells into the first muspah. Gently chipping away at it, Jahaan did not relent until finally - thanks to one admittedly accidental strike to the creature’s temple - it fell to the ground.

Feeling the magic pulsing through his veins, Jahaan had never felt so powerful, so alive! He had the power of one of Gielinor’s most powerful deities flowing through him, and it was addictive.

Getting slightly cocky, Jahaan decided to mix things up, channeling a blood spell next, which connected with the second muspah’s chest. Dodging out of the way of an enraged claw, Jahaan was in the perfect position to follow up. He did so, but miscalculated, well, everything.

Caught in the blast zone, the muspah crumpled under the power of the smoke spell, but Jahaan did too, coughing up a lung as he found himself staring up into the dark Freneskaen skies. His face felt like it was on fire, and when he dared move a hand towards his cheek, he noticed that some of the skin had nearly been scorched off. The cloth around his nose and mouth was no more. Fortunately, his armour had protected the rest of him, only slightly charred from the explosion.

“World Guardian,” Zaros called inside his mind.

Jahaan internally groaned, which he didn’t even care if Zaros could hear. “Give me a minute.”

“World Guardian, we have to keep moving. They will be back in greater numbers.”

Peeling himself off the ground, a greater effort than the entirety of the muspah fight, Jahaan reached into his backpack and guzzled down the contents of his waterskin, pausing only to choke now and again. Taking deep breaths just made things worse; he felt his throat tightening at the action, repelling the thick acrid air around him. “I can’t do anything if I can’t breathe. Hold on a second.”

After removing his chestplate, next he took off his shirt, ripping strips out of it. Unfortunately he had nothing to clean the wound on his face, so resorted to just binding it at it was, looking like one of Dr Fenkenstrain’s creatures. Another strip he used to cover his mouth and nose, slightly helping the whole breathing situation.

After putting his chestplate back on, Jahaan blinked out the dust from around his eyes and fought past the dizziness in his head. “Alright, where to?”

 

All the way down to the bottom of the volcano, that was where to.

Luckily, no more muspah were encountered on their travels. In their place were the occasional earthquakes, leaving Jahaan clinging for dear life onto whatever was around him at the time. Landslides and rockfalls blocked their path on no less than three occasions; clambering over them wasn’t too difficult, but Jahaan’s limbs were already aching just from walking. Cinders and ashes rained down from the sky like violent snow, scorching to the touch. Despite this, Jahaan found himself constantly looking upwards, shielding his face with his arm as best he could so he could look out for incoming lava flows. They were a waiting game - guess what path they were streaming in, pray that you were right, wait for them to pass, then continue.

Freneskae was a  _ lovely  _ place.

 

Eventually the two of them made it through into the Elder Halls, a large expanse of marble and crystalline rock that looked like it had been untouched for centuries. Glowing wisps of energy were floating around the room, sparkling stars in the dark cavern, all different shapes, colours and sizes. Five tunnels spread out from the centre room.

“There, planted in the ground,” Zaros referenced a small stick jutting out of the stone. “That is the Measure. An Elder Artifact used to measure the anima mundi of a place. With it you can bring forth harvestable wisps to weave a divine simulacrum.”

Jahaan rubbed his temples. “I understood about twenty percent of that. Just tell me what I need to do in simple, mortal terms, please.”

“Take the Measure, plant it in the ground. Faint wisps surrounding will then become harvestable. Guide them together until they join, like atoms. Continue until you have enough to weave a simulacrum. I will know when that is.”

“Thank you,” Jahaan smiled, thankful for the triumph of simplicity. “Hey, what’s in those tunnels?”

“Explore, should you wish,” Zaros allowed; Jahaan took him up on the offer, walking through into the closest tunnel. Inside it was a floating fragmented sphere, grey and covered in hexagons.

“What is it?” Jahaan enquired, not quite stupid enough to reach out and touch it.

“It is the egg the elder god Jas hatched from,” Zaros explained. “Does it not seem familiar?”

Now that he thought about it, the egg did look hauntingly similar to the Stone itself…

“It can’t be the same one, can it?”

“Not exactly. The one you have encountered is unique, altered to become what it is. This one's purpose was quite simple, and was fulfilled.”

“So this one is…?”

“Debris,” Zaros simply replied. “You will find more in the other chambers.”

And he did. A freezing chamber with a fragmented egg covered in ice, belonging to Wen. A boiling chamber with most of the head radiating from the red-hot egg, belonging to Ful. A chamber with dark brown egg and an earthy smell, belonging to Bik.

The last one was a darker chamber. The egg was black on the outside, looking almost smooth except for a spiral running around it. The spiral looked like some sort of corruption. “Is this...?”

“Mah’s,” Zaros confirmed. “Her’s is the energy you must harvest. When you wish to proceed, World Guardian.”

Unaware that Zaros was even capable of slight passive aggressiveness was news to Jahaan, but he did feel like the deity was ushering him on now. To be fair, he had been dawdling. Still, there was one more question on his mind, and feeling he was holding enough cards, Jahaan felt bold enough to ask it.”

“Why do you want to become an elder god?”

“All in due time,” Zaros repeated.

“No, that time is now,” Jahaan insisted. “If you want a body, I’m your only shot. All I want is to know who I’m really dealing with. You’re inside my mind. You can’t lie.”

There was a long, drawn out pause, and Jahaan felt like he was playing chicken with a cannon. Nevertheless, he held steady to his resolve.

Eventually, Zaros spoke. “The elder gods create a Perfect World - like Gielinor is, like Freneskae was - and then slumber. Then, when the amount of anima mundi of a universe is sufficient, new elder gods hatch from eggs underneath the current Perfect World and proceed to suck the anima of the universe dry to revive themselves, destroying the universe in the process. Then, the cycle begins again.”

Jahaan’s chest became heavy with realisation. “The Great Revision…”

“Yes,” Zaros gravely confirmed.

“But… but that won’t be any time soon, right?”

“I do not know when the elder gods will wake. It could be a millennia. It could be a fortnight. When they do, they will show no mercy.”

Shaking his head, Jahaan exclaimed, “There has to be something we can do about it!”

“Ease, World Guardian,” Zaros tried to calm. “That is why I wish to become an elder god. I want to stall The Great Revision, to reason with the elder gods. I can only do that if I am their peer.”

Shaking his head to try and rattle this supposed logic into place, Jahaan said, “So basically what you’re saying is that, when these new elder gods hatch, the universe is going to be destroyed. But if you became an elder god, you could, what, persuade the elder gods not to allow the eggs to hatch? Convince them to hold off? Is that the long and short of it?”

“Yes,” Zaros replied. “From the innate knowledge Mah has given me, I know that The Great Revision occurs when, in their eyes, they find that the Perfect World they have created has become corrupted. I will convince them that this universe worth sparing; that, in Gielinor, they have created a Perfect World that should be left to thrive. If I do not interfere, The Great Revision could be upon us at any moment.”

“But why didn’t they destroy Freneskae?” Jahaan asked.

“That I do not know for sure,” Zaros conceded. “Mah was too weak to leave Freneskae. Perhaps they did not destroy this world for, in doing so, they would destroy her too. But we cannot dwell upon the universe’s mortality now. We must proceed with the task at hand.”

“Right, right, sorry…” Jahaan exhaled deeply, really wishing he had a drink in front of him right about now.

So, as he was instructed, he planted the Measure into the softer spots between the rocks. The Measure didn’t seem to have a hard time breaking through. When it did, the faint wisps surrounding Jahaan became less ethereal, and he found he could guide them now.

Thus began a rather tedious process of planting the Measure, gathering a handful of wisps together, moving the Measure, and repeat. Only a few wisps became tangible at a time; the orb he was creating began larger and larger, but Zaros didn’t cut him off at any point.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Jahaan asked, “How many more of these do you need?”

“Not many more,” Zaros answered, much to Jahaan’s relief.

It still took a good ten more minutes of siphoning the energy before Zaros declared, “It is finished. The body is woven. I will depart from your form.”

_ A little more warning would have been nice,  _ Jahaan thought to himself after he picked himself up off the ground, momentarily falling unconscious at the sudden absence of the deity. Beside him was the ‘body’ he had woven that Zaros had now inhabited. It had a shape akin to a child moulding a person out of clay, round and featureless.

“Now, you must infuse my body with dark energy, creating a dark simulacrum,” Zaros stated.

“How do I do that?”

“Directly above us, on the top of the volcano, are crystal shards of dark and light energy embedded into Mah’s fingertips,” Zaros explained. “You must extract one and insert it into the body.”

Jahaan almost felt like collapsing with frustration. “So hold up, you’re telling me I have to climb BACK UP that volcano, with all the fun hazards that entails, possibly encounter another hoard of muspah, then pluck a piece of Mah out of her sleeping form without her waking?”

“You have come this far, World Guardian,” was all Zaros could say.

Yes, he’d come this far. Jahaan also realised that, without Zaros, he’d probably have to walk back to the World Gate by himself, without Zaros’ guidance or protection. He was stuck between a rock, and a much bigger rock, both of which were plentiful on Freneskae.

So, they trekked back up the mountain again, past the lava flows, the landslides, the lightning strikes and every other natural wonder that the weather bestowed upon them.

"How was Freneskae ever a perfect world?" Jahaan muttered to himself as he crawled over a mound of rocks.

Eventually, Jahaan heaved himself over the final ledge and found himself at the top of the volcano, thankful for the lack of muspah this time around.

“Hurry, World Guardian, before her nightmares attack us.”

Jahaan didn’t need to be persuaded anymore than that. As swiftly yet as quietly as he could, he edged over to Mah’s sleeping form. Crystals of shining blue and dark purple protruded from her fingers. Delicately, Jahaan wrapped his hand around the smallest shard of purple that was close to him, plucking it out with his heart in his throat, expecting to be squashed at any moment.

He didn’t dare look up at her.

Fortunately, the act didn’t seem to have any effect on Mah, and he returned to Zaros with the crystal.

“Perfect, that is exactly what I require,” Zaros’ monotone voice wasn’t great at conveying joy, but Jahaan didn’t let it bother him. Holding it closer to Zaros was enough for the crystal to be engulfed into his body.

Then, the transformation begun.

The body grew, larger and darker, until it was an eight foot silhouette of pure black energy. Limbs sprouted and became more defined; purple crystals took the place of claws and shaped his joints. They also took the place of eyes - eight of them, to be exact. Zaros stretched outwards, quickly growing accustomed to his new form. From seemingly nowhere, purple robes faded into existence and automatically donned themself to Zaros, as did his gold-plated armour that fixed into his shoulders and chest. Zaros’ eyes receded into the back of his hood, once more becoming the faceless deity he was known for being; an armoured mask filled the void.

But before Jahaan could admire his handiwork, Mah began to stir. Her hands clenched into tight fists, and she dragged her oversized head off the volcano top.

“She is waking,” Zaros watched with horror as Mah awoke. His composed and stoic demeanour fell into one of panic. “We have to leave!”

He shot back around to Jahaan. “I need your permission!”

Mah’s face was a contorted mess of rocks, lava spewing from her mouth and out of one of her eyes. One side of her face had two eyes, one seemingly filled with lava, while the other had four eyes of random shapes and sizes, glowing brightly with divine energy.

Jahaan was transfixed as she rose from the volcano top and began to blink her way back to the world of the awake.

Mah lifted a hand, held it high above the two of them, darkening their world like an ash cloud.

Her intentions were clear.

“WORLD GUARDIAN, NOW!” Zaros cried as Mah’s fist descended.

“YES!” Jahaan managed to call out at the last second, allowing Zaros to teleport the two of them away. The millisecond after they did, Mah’s fist struck the ground, denting the rock beneath it. Enraged, Mah raised her head to the sky and roared a terrifying, furious cry, shaking the earth and skies around her with venom and fury.


	24. Zarosian Reprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 06: FATE OF THE GODS  
> Chapter 4 - Zarosian Reprise
> 
> The gods have returned to Gielinor, but something is preventing the arrival of Zaros. Jahaan is enlisted by Azzanadra to help bring his god back to their world, a task that would send him into the harshities of the Mahjarrat homeworld: Freneskae…

When Jahaan materialised back onto firm ground, he was back beside the World Gate, the earthquakes from Mah’s nightmares only a faint tremble this far out. Trying to calm his erratic heartbeat, Jahaan doubled over, clutching his knees and panting with all the built up adrenaline.

Zaros, naturally, did not seem phased at all. “Mah awakens,” was all he said.

“Yeah,” Jahaan replied within gasps. “Shouldn’t we be getting out of here?”

“Not yet. We are safe for now, and I have something I wish to say before I return to Gielinor.”

Due to Zaros’ nature, he didn’t walk. Instead, he hovered, a few inches above the ground, his robes grazing the rocks beneath him. He glided slightly closer to Jahaan, towering over the man by a good two feet. Yet, Jahaan was not scared, and Zaros could sense this. It pleased him.

“When I was inside your mind,” Zaros began, “I could not lie to you, nor could you to me. I saw Sliske’s poison. I wanted to thank you for not letting his corruption influence you.”

Internally, Jahaan winced. “Then by that logic, you also knew I’d decided to hear him out.”

“I did, as is your right,” Zaros confirmed, but there was no hint of anger or disappointment in his monotonous voice. “I did not want to compel your fealty. I wanted to earn your support. While I do not condone Sliske’s insidious words, I am grateful you saw through them. You may come to learn something about me, that I…  _ compel  _ loyalty within others.”

Jahaan crinkled his brow. “Against their will?”

“It is not something I have control of,” Zaros explained, calmly. “It is something bestowed upon me by Mah. I am unable to rid myself of this...  _ ability _ ... but I must live with it. Do not be concerned - it does not affect you, World Guardian.”

Jahaan noted the concern, almost shame, in Zaros’ voice. It was hard to gauge the diety’s emotions - his voice was hardly expressive - but Jahaan could sense it nonetheless. “But it affects your followers?”

“Yes. It is one of the reasons I chose to withdraw from my own empire,” he admitted. “I find the idea of coercing another mind to be...  _ distasteful _ . But it only affects those in my presence, and the effect dissipates with time. This is how I know that those still loyal to me are truly loyal. They have not been under its effects for many centuries, yet still heed my call. I wished for you to know this from me, so that you could understand it. Now you know this of me, might I ask one question of you?”

Jahaan nodded, so Zaros continued, “You could have left me behind, or wounded me with a light simulacrum. I was dependent on you, and you assisted me with little benefit to yourself. Why?”

Jahaan thought for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Because you were genuine. Honest. Your intentions seem honourable. I might not be waving a banner with your emblem on it, but I don’t want to make an enemy out of you either. You convinced me to hear you out. I heard you out. And believe me, I like what you’re saying a lot more than some of the other gods prancing around.”

“Thank you, World Guardian,” Zaros replied, softly. “Come now. I wish to greet my loyal followers.”

 

When Jahaan emerged back through the World Gate, the site of Gielinor filled him with so much glee and relief that he felt like kissing the ground. The sun, the sun! It was near blinding, but he didn’t want to look away. And the breeze, the cool wind that danced around him, tickling his skin.

The company surrounding the World Gate had doubled since he’d entered; Azzanadra and Sliske remained, the former as eager to see his lord as a child is for the arrival of Christmas. Next to him, two of Zaros’ most formidable followers had joined the Mahjarrat to see Zaros’ return, both of whom Jahaan had the unfortunate pleasure of having dalliances with before, back in Guthix’s cave. The first, a fire enchantress in the service of Zaros by the name of ‘Char’. A dancer, brown-skinned and with hair that undulated like a blanket of fire. The other, a nihil (of which Jahaan had officially had enough of today) by the name of ‘Nex’, a creature that even the gods fear.

“My lord! You are returned!” Azzanadra exclaimed, sounding like he was about to burst into tears of joy. “You are exactly as I remember.”

“We have the World Guardian to thank for that,” Zaros commended. “And I shall reward him in due course. But first, something requires my attention. Sliske.”

Zaros spun around to face Mahjarrat who was hunched over like a silk-draped vulture. Sliske’s smile was thin, his eyes unreadable as he stated, “I am yours to command. Just say the word.”

“No more.”

Sliske blinked. “What did you say?”

Jahaan took a small step backwards, slightly behind Azzanadra, as Zaros repeated, “No. More.”

Sliske cottoned on at this point. “But... no! I... I am loyal! Have I not always been loyal?” to hear Sliske’s wavered tone, a cocktail of hurt and disbelief, baffled Jahaan to no end. It also slightly scared him as, the more Sliske spoke, the angrier he became. “Have I not done everything you've always asked of me? As the empire fell, did I not keep safe those things necessary for your return? Was I not pivotal in the liberation of all those who stand before?” he was practically shouting at this point. “Did I not kill a god for you?! You cannot turn me away! Not now, Zaros, please!”

Jahaan couldn’t keep his eyes off the seething Mahjarrat. Surely Sliske would have known that something like this would occur. His hesitation to allow Zaros’ return was evident enough of that.  _ But his reaction, so volatile, so desperate, to hear him plead… what was his angle? Was this one of his charades, or was he finally showing some raw, genuine emotion? _

“Sliske, stop,” was all Zaros replied.

There was a long, drawn out pause while Sliske locked eyes with the deity. Finally, he broke into laughter. A hollow, mirthless ghost of a laugh. That might have been the most terrifying thing of all.

His light, empty chuckle remained as he said, “Very well. I guess I'm not quite the actor I thought. What gave me away?”

Jahaan was still on edge, confused about the tonal shift. There was something not quite right about the way he spoke, his mannerisms. More so than usual, that is.

There was something not quite right, and Jahaan couldn’t put his finger on it.

Zaros did not falter. “You betray yourself... though, in truth, I have never trusted you. And your words of betrayal to the World Guardian cannot be ignored.”

“ _ Betrayal _ ?” Sliske spat the word like it was poison. “They could have just walked away, left you to rot! I was just convincing them to hear you out. It was down to  _ you  _ to convince them of your worth!”

“Whatever your intent, no longer can I turn a blind eye to your disobedience, nor condone your methods.”

“Are you sure it's not just because me killing Guthix puts me beyond your control?” Sliske’s eyes flashed with fire, a hint of smugness lighting the edges.

Zaros exhaled deeply, providing no comment.

The smugness in Sliske’s smile grew, a victory assured. “Fine, don't answer. So, what's next? An intervention? Family counselling? Maybe some trust exercises?”

“Excommunication,” Zaros declared, the word reverberating like a gunshot. “You will have no further association with us. You are on your own.”

Sliske sniffed a lone, humourless laugh. His smile returned, the curve a little crueler and less self-satisfied. “Oh, I've always been alone. But I guess this means you'll have to find someone else to do your dirty work. Your new World Guardian pet, perhaps?”

“Leave us. Never return,” Zaros demanded. Nex and Char looked as if they were fit to burn the forest down with Sliske inside. Azzanadra, for his part, looked just as disappointed as he did furious, the betrayal cutting slightly deeper to him.

“As you command...  _ my lord _ ,” Sliske mocked with a faint bow. He then turned his attention to Jahaan; meeting the Mahjarrat’s fiery gaze made Jahaan want to back away, but he held himself firm. “But don't think this is over, World Guardian. I'm just getting started with you.”

He took a step forward. Azzanadra moved to intercept, but Zaros motioned for him to stand down.

Sliske’s eyes practically burned with yellow fire, staring Jahaan down like a predator. “Where I'm concerned, Zaros' protection of you no longer applies. Between you and me, all bets are off. Be seeing you.”

With that, he teleported away in a flurry of shadows.

Finally, Jahaan released the breath he’d been holding for far too long. To Zaros, he asked, “What did Sliske mean by ‘protection’?”

“You are important,” Zaros simply replied. “You must be kept safe.”

“Well, no offense,” Jahaan began, somewhat tetchily, “But a little more protection would have been nice when Sliske had his hands around my throat last night.”

Azzanadra blinked. “What was that?”

“When  _ you  _ gave him the task of delivering your letter,” Jahaan didn’t want to make eye contact with the Mahjarrat; he was already regretting mentioning the incident, and the memory was making him angry. “It doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything.”

Shaking his head with confusion, Azzanadra started, “I do not understand why he-”

“Azzanadra, it’s okay,” Jahaan interrupted, his tone softer now. “I handled it. It’s fine. Alright?”

Sighing, Azzanadra replied, “If you insist. I apologise for bringing him to you. If it’s any consolation,” he stepped slightly closer to Jahaan, scrunching his face up in a way that Jahaan assumed was his attempt at reassurance, but he didn’t have the features for it. “Sliske’s mood has always changed like the weather. He is angry now, but I don’t believe it will last long. But if he approaches you again, find me. I will deal with him personally.”

Smiling weakly, Jahaan said, “Thanks, Azzanadra.”

Having listened to the conversation mutely, retaining all but adding nothing, Zaros finally spoke up, “Sliske is an unknown quantity, and a dangerous enemy.”

Turning around to face Char, he instructed, “Char, keep an eye on Sliske. It gives me pause that he holds both the Siphon and the Catalyst. I do not want him thinking he can follow in Zamorak's footsteps. He is angry, and may attempt something rash. Inform me if he leads you to the location of either artefact. None of the young gods should have free access to such tools. Especially the Catalyst – the dragonkin cannot grow too strong before we are placed to deal with them.”

“As you command,” Char bowed slowly, fire dancing on her lips. “I am heartened to see you returned.”

After she teleported away, Zaros then turned his attention to Nex. “Nex, I task you with keeping Sliske's little game in check - watch the young gods. Try to contain their destruction as much as possible, but do not get drawn into open conflict. There may come a time that I need you to step in to ensure nothing interferes with my plans.”

“At once, my lord,” Nex hissed, teleporting away in a myriad of black and purple electric pulses.

Next, his attention returned to Azzanadra. “And to Azzanadra, my most loyal servant. Together we must prepare to rouse the elder gods. Zamorak's desperation at the end of the last God Wars scattered this planet's anima mundi, but even that was not enough to wake them - only Guthix.”

Azzanadra hesitated, a brief flash of worry in his eyes. “Y-You wish to create a greater level of destruction?”

“Not greater; more targeted,” Zaros assured, echos in his bellowing yet measured voice. “I require you to seek out Gielinor's own Elder Halls. If disturbed, the elder gods will have no choice but to respond.”

“It will be done, my lord,” Azzanadra vowed, crossing his arms over his chest and whisking himself away.

Finally, Zaros approached Jahaan; silence surrounded the entire landscape, save for the low hum from the World Gate and the brisk breeze fluttering through the trees. “Now has come the time for us to part, World Guardian. Reflect on all you have witnessed this day. Gielinor's reckoning is coming, but there is still time for us to avert it. Until I call on you again, do as you otherwise would, had we not met.  _ Pax tecum _ .”

With a nod of his head, Jahaan simply replied, “Farewell.”

Zaros left his side, transporting the World Gate away with him, like it was never there at all.

Jahaan was alone once again.

But he wasn’t alone for long…


	25. Dishonour Among Thieves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 07: DISHONOUR AMONG THIEVES  
> Chapter 1 - Traveller's Tale
> 
> Due to his status as the World Guardian, Jahaan wound up as part of Zamorak’s heist team. Their task? Steal the Stone of Jas from Sliske and return its power to Zamorak. Jahaan gets to learn more about a god propaganda had always skewed, but will he be on board with Zamorak’s plan in the end...

Jahaan had always existed as a ‘have sword’ and ‘will travel’ kind of person.

He had run across a few hapless souls in his travels, requesting his assistance in one way or another, and he’d obliged as much as he could - being an adventurer, it came with the territory. Then there were those people that weren’t as much ‘hapless’ as they were ‘helpless’, like a chef that didn’t have the right ingredients and for  _ some reason _ couldn’t just walk to the farm and get some himself; Jahaan tried to help them anyway. Reward was always promised, and he ate well that night.

Then there were the outright bizarre situations Jahaan didn’t realise he was stuck in the middle of until he was playing matchmaker between a yeti and a Fremennik queen, or brewing rum for pirates to keep the alcoholic zombies at bay, or stealing footwear for a genie who requested the ‘sole’ of the Mayor of Nardah.

Life in the adventuring world was crazy sometimes.

Now that he’d become the World Guardian, things had only gotten worse. Seems like everyone thinks Guthix’s ‘chosen one’ can solve their problems, and no amount of explaining the whole ‘right place, right time’ mantra helped. Still, if he was being brutally honest with himself, Jahaan quite liked the attention, the travelling, the questing… all the reasons he’d set off from Menaphos with sword in hand in the first place.

This time, he ended up playing matchmaking for trolls, gave marriage counselling to a seagull, helped liberate the fairies from the ork invaders, invented bacon and, best of all, dealt with penguins wanting to take over Gielinor and trying to freeze the desert with a portable fridge.

_ Sir Tiffy was right all along. _

Still, he found it quite refreshing to not be dealing with any egocentric gods, or idiot Mahjarrat trying to ascend to godhood.

That was a nice change.

 

“...and then, the the goblin generals needed orange slices that weren’t orange, some maggots that weren’t bland, and some bread that wasn’t crunchy!”

Jahaan had finally met up with Ozan all the way back in Varrock after he’d promised to help Queen Ellamaria decorate her palace garden - the ordeal was NOT worth Her Royal Snobbishness’ behaviour - and began recounting his tales since the two departed almost eight months ago. It had been a long time apart, yes, but life had separated them in the past. Some way, somehow, they always found one another, usually at a bar. This time it was The Blue Moon Inn, quite near the centre of the city, and therefore packed to the brim with the usual Varrockian riff-raff. Most of the attention was around the famous ex-vampyre slayer, Dr Harlow, who’d stopped by for an ale on his way east.

Chuckling, Ozan took another glug of his bitter. “So what did you do?”

“Dye and spice was involved. The pot ended up exploding anyway - shot through the roof and all! It’s a miracle there was anything edible after that.”

“Well, they are goblins.”

“Aye, that they are,” Jahaan concurred, finishing up his drink. The cup was refilled before he had time to protest. “So how’s Ariane?”

“She’s alright, but spending a lot of time in the Wizards’ Tower as of late. She had a premonition about the tower up in flames. Ariane was a seer - you gotta take visions like that seriously, y’know?”

Biting his bottom lip, Jahaan agreed, “Of course. These seer and gypsy types are frighteningly accurate sometimes…”

After Ozan finished his round, he looked out of the window into the night sky and remarked, “Damn, how long have we been in here?”

“Enough to build up quite a nice tab,” the barman sauntered over with a smug smile, wiping down the spillage underneath Ozan’s glass.

Wincing, Ozan ventured, “No chance I could reduce that tab with an enthralling tale of how I stole Sir Vyvin’s armour?”

“No chance,” the bartender asserted, his smile broadening. “And you owe me for the damage that little troll runt of yours has caused.”

Eyes wide, Ozan bulked, “Don’t call Coal a runt!”

“Whatever,” he slid across a messily written tally on papyrus. “Here’s the tab. Cough up.”

 

After shilling out his hefty portion of the tab, his coin pouch feeling an awful lot lighter now, Ozan and Jahaan departed to their rooms, saying they’d meet up in the morning to walk to Draynor together. Jahaan had some unfinished business with a chef in Lumbridge, so it wasn’t too far out of his way.

Jahaan entered his rented room and closed the door behind him, the sounds of the Varrockian bustle fading into the background. 

However, that didn’t last for long; the familiar sounds of a teleport spell alerted him to the intruder’s presence first, and he drew his swords in the direction of the disruption.

 

Soldiers had come into the war hospital in Al Kharid telling stories of a twisted, hybrid of a woman. Something inhuman, but not like any race they’d ever encountered. She was Zamorak’s right hand, a fierce general under his command. Gold-plated armour clawed around her bony form, her skin iron-like with patches of something that resembled normal flesh, but hardened and slightly scaly. Magenta energy twirled itself around her arms and wrists constantly, a low crackle becoming white noise in Jahaan’s mind. Her eyes were a striking shade of pink, too, matching the gem she had embedded in her forehead.

“Greetings, World Guardian,” her voice was harsh and brittle as she remarked, “You are not a hard man to find.”

Jahaan edged a couple of inches backwards, allowing the tall woman room to breathe. “I know you. You were at the Battle of Lumbridge.”

“Moia,” the woman introduced, simply. “Your swords. I’m not here to parry. Put them away.”

“A stranger just barged into my hostel room. Forgive me if I’m less than welcoming.”

Sighing, Moia rubbed the crystal on her forehead. “Very well. I come here on behalf of my master. He wishes to recruit you to retrieve something of his. The reward will be handsome.”

“No need to mince words - you want me to steal something,” this wasn’t the first time he’d been requested to ‘retrieve’ something. Jahaan didn’t mind - it paid for his meals, after all. “What’s the prize?”

“The Stone of Jas.”

Jahaan did a double take, his expectations shooting up. “Oh yeah? And who’s your master?”

“The rightful god of Gielinor, Lord Zamorak.”

...and his expectations were thus cut down a little bit. “Yeah, I haven’t had many dealings with Zamorakians.”

“Isn’t it time you rectify that?” Moia suggested, impatience bubbling under her desperate attempt to appear civil. “I did not see you fighting for Saradomin in Lumbridge. There is hope for you yet.”

“Yeah, but didn’t Zamorak lose at Lumbridge?” the remark wasn’t meant to sound as insulting as it did, but when Jahaan saw the mist boiling around Moia’s palms, he regretted his careless tongue.

Swallowing hard, Moia forced the mist to decapitate. “They were dark days. Zamorak is healing, and will get revenge upon those who fought against him. But right now, there are more pressing matters. I repeat: the Stone of Jas.”

Jahaan inquired, “Why does Zamorak want to hire me? I’ve never exactly seen eye-to-eye with his chaos ideology.”

“My lord believes you are instrumental, and if he does, then so do I,” Moia explained, brushing her fringe from her eyes. “We are in need of your… unique skills.”

“Because I’m the World Guardian?” Jahaan surmised. It wasn’t a hard guess.

“Precisely. Somehow, your fate is bound to the events that are unfolding. We wish for you to be on the right side of history. Zamorak requests a meeting. Agree, and you shall discover where your true loyalties should lie. Assist in our mission, and you get to strip Sliske of his power source and end his little farce once and for all.”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Jahaan began to grin. “The least I could do is hear him out.”

Moia didn’t smile. Jahaan didn’t think she was capable. Instead, she retrieved a device from her utility belt. It was a tiny little box with a dial on it. Nothing fancy. Handing it to Jahaan, she stated, “Use this to be transported to our headquarters. You will arrive promptly on Erysail at full sun.”

Sheathing his swords, Jahaan took the device, and after a brief ‘farewell’, Moia teleported herself away. Jahaan watched her form fade away, utterly baffled, fiddling with the device in his hands as a reminder that he didn’t just dream that encounter.

Slumping down on the edge of the bed, he tried to think why Moia looked so familiar, and yet so alien at the same time. She didn’t match the description of any race he’d ever heard of, let alone encountered.  _ That gem in her forehead was rather beautiful, _ he thought to himself, trying to unravel the mysteries of this woman.  _ It looked like… like the Mahjarrat gems. Was she another female Mahjarrat, like Enakhra? She wasn’t at the Ritual, and she doesn’t look completely like a Mahjarrat. A half-breed, perhaps? Is that possible? _

Suddenly, it tweaked in Jahaan’s mind -  _ It IS possible! Sliske mentioned Lucien mated with a human woman. Could Moia be the offspring? _

Feeling rather chuffed at his deductions, Jahaan was tempted to ask for confirmation upon next meeting her, but realised in good time that might be a little rude.

Removing his sword belt, Jahaan let these thoughts twirl on inside his mind as he began to unwind. Erysail was three days away, so he had time to decide whether or not he was going to take the meeting.

_ “What a tantalising proposition!” _

“Gahh!” Jahaan bolted forwards, his hand instinctively clutching into the handle of his sheathed dagger. He shot around with indignation in his eyes and saw Sliske materialise in the doorway. “Have you been here the whole time?!”

Tutting, Sliske replied, “Honestly Jahaan, what’s the use of having the ability to see into the Shadow Realm if you never use it?”

“That’s not answering my question!”

“Ah, you mean, did I hear your conversation with Moia? But of course! The girl was naive to think she could corner you without my knowing. Oh, and take your hand away from that little knife of yours. We both know you’re not going to use it.”

Jahaan didn’t budge. “Why are you here, Sliske?”

“Well, it’s like this,” Sliske began, “I know of Zamorak's plan to steal the Stone of Jas, and you know I know, but they don’t know that I know that they know.”

Jahaan shook his muddled head. “Wait... what?”

“Ha! Did I lose you? In short, I know that one of Zamorak’s agents has found the Stone, and they’ll come for it soon enough. When they do, I'll be waiting.”

“So... you want them to find it? Why?”

“My contest has slowed somewhat since Bandos's death. Sometimes a Mahjarrat must provide his own entertainment. I think it’s time to spice things up,” Sliske explained, casually making himself at home on the edge of Jahaan’s bed, his long and bony fingers exploring the floral patterns embedded in the duvet. Jahaan followed him with a calculated glare. “You know, you really aren’t a very welcoming host. You haven’t even offered me a drink.”

“You were saying?” Jahaan impatiently pressed, thinking the sooner the Mahjarrat got to the point, the sooner his hostel room would stop resembling a menagerie for the criminally insane.

“Right, yes, spicing things up - that's where you come in. If I were you, I’d lead them on, go and meet with ol’ Zammy. Then, wait until the most deliciously dramatic moment to betray the usurper! Together, we could have some real fun on this one.”

“And who says I’ll play along?” Jahaan challenged, smiling wryly. “Maybe I’ll like what Zamorak’s selling. Maybe I’ll join his cause.”

“Maybe you will... but that would be terribly boring now, wouldn’t it? You know, Zammy really is a lot of fun to deceive. Oh, how I used to play with him all those years ago…” Sliske stood up from the bed, his hunched over posture doing him a favour as Jahaan doubted he could stand up straight without hitting his head on the ceiling. “But I think you’re  _ much  _ more fun to play with, Janny.”

Jahaan forced himself not to flinch as Sliske approached him, half-lidded eyes and an amused smile carved into his striped face. He failed and shivered ever so slightly when Sliske cupped his chin, bony fingers digging lightly into his throat, tilting his head upwards.

The grip on his dagger tightened. Jahaan gulped, hissing sharply through gritted teeth, “Get off me.”

This only made Sliske smile more at the challenge; he leered down closer. “Or what?”

Sliske had barely gotten the last syllable out before Jahaan had his blade across the Mahjarrat’s throat, returning the challenging glare.

Sniffing a laugh, Sliske drawled, “Well, I did say to look me in the eyes as you slit my throat. So, what are you waiting for?”

He forced himself further into the blade, biting down on his grey flesh hard enough to draw a thin line of blood as his face loomed closer to Jahaan’s, his defiant eyes never leaving Jahaan’s green ones.

Matching this, Jahaan twisted the blade in such a way that it pressed tightly against the Mahjarrat’s jugular, watching with satisfaction as Sliske’s usual calm and collected expression flashed briefly with fleeting panic.

Sliske licked his lips and flashed a daring, thin smile. Seconds ticked on like years; Jahaan held his gaze steady, dancing across Sliske’s yellow iris’ which had an unmistakable glint in them.

_ It’d be so easy, _ Jahaan’s eyes narrowed into slits, steadying his breathing in order to prevent his hand from shaking, which was easier said than done. From the look in his eyes, it was almost as if Sliske was daring him to do it.

_I could._ _I could and he couldn’t stop me. He’s pressed too hard into the blade. It’d barely take a second and I could put him out of my misery. Out of everyone’s misery._

Now his hands really were shaking; Jahaan couldn’t look Sliske in the eyes anymore and instead rested his glare upon Sliske’s jaw, which soon transformed into a cruel upturned sneer. Blood trickled down Sliske’s neck as Jahaan’s unsteady grip caused the blade to scrape against his flesh; Jahaan could feel the rhythm of Sliske’s pulse beating against the metal, but he knew his own heartbeat was going even faster. As the blade dug dangerously deeper into the flesh, Sliske inhaled a sharp breath, hissing through the pain that came with it. 

Jahaan’s grip on the handle tightened; he was properly shaking now, closing his eyes in a desperate attempt to keep some resolve.

But it didn’t work.

With a foul curse, Jahaan threw the blade to the ground, a loud metallic clang on the battered wooden floorboards reverberating around the room. He tried to gain some distance from the Mahjarrat by backing himself up against the wall. By accident he met Sliske’s gaze, and it was a mistake, for it was like Sliske’s eyes were claws that grabbed his throat, squeezing tightly and cutting off the circulation. It made Jahaan’s attempt to recover his breathing even more of a struggle.

Sliske wiped the blood from his neck with his palm, examining it amusedly.

“I knew you couldn’t do it,” he remarked, a malicious undertone layered in his voice.

Gulping, Jahaan’s eyes fell to the floor as he rubbed the back of his neck and whispered, “Leave, Sliske. Please… just go.”

Raising a curious eyebrow, Sliske examined Jahaan like he was looking at him for the very first time. “You're an interesting specimen, Jahaan,” he finally spoke up. “Very well, I shall take my leave. After all, you have to regain your composure for the big meeting with Zamorak. Until next time... ta-ta, my dear…”

Blowing him a taunting kiss, Sliske vanished. Once he'd gone, Jahaan slid down the wall and onto the floor, his hand unconsciously still at his neck while his heart remained firmly in his throat.

 

Jahaan didn’t wait for Ozan next morning. Instead, he slid an apologetic note under the door, lying about an emergency - vague enough to cover all bases, specific enough to be believable. From the silence inside when Jahaan rested his ear against the splintered wooden door, Ozan was still sound asleep, and would likely stay that way for the next few hours. So, huddled up in a second-hand cloak he’d acquired, Jahaan set off into the brisk chill of a Varrockian dawn.

He wasn’t ready to explain himself to Ozan, how he had the opportunity to dispatch Gielinor’s greatest adversary, but couldn’t. But at the same time, Jahaan didn’t think he could take hiding it from Ozan much longer. Thus, the easiest option was to avoid him altogether, for now at least, until he’d figured things out in his own mind.

After tossing and turning for a lot of the night, Jahaan wasn’t much clearer on anything, so why a walk in the freezing cold would help is anyone’s guess. Nevertheless, along he trudged.

_ Why couldn’t I do it? _ The question haunted his mind relentlessly.  _ I’ve killed people for less. Why couldn’t I kill him? _

Jahaan sighed to himself, hoisting his backpack further up towards his shoulders, marching onwards, going nowhere.

“Damnit Sliske…” he muttered under his breath. “How dare you get in my head…”


	26. The Nightmare Continues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 06: FATE OF THE GODS  
> Chapter 5 - The Nightmare Continues
> 
> The gods have returned to Gielinor, but something is preventing the arrival of Zaros. Jahaan is enlisted by Azzanadra to help bring his god back to their world, a task that would send him into the harshities of the Mahjarrat homeworld: Freneskae…

The trudge back to his little hostel in the unnamed town really highlighted just how much he’d put his body through on Freneskae, for once the adrenaline had worn off, the aches had made an unwelcome return. Worst of all were the burns on his unprotected face, and Jahaan cursed his unwillingness to wear a cumbersome helmet. They’d scar, undoubtedly, but he needed them treated before they took a turn for the worse.

When the innkeeper saw the state he was in as he fell through the door and all-but slumped against the wall, she didn’t think twice before leading him upstairs. Fortunately, his room had not been occupied in his absence. The cabinet was still smashed from his fistfight with the Mahjarrat, but thanks to his  _ generous donation _ to the hostel’s upkeep, the woman didn’t breathe a word about it.

After a good, thorough wash and a few coins for use of the medical kit, Jahaan was ready to sleep the night away. And most of the next day away. And part of the next night away.

Unfortunately, his slumber was broken up by his painful bones crying for attention, by the rowdy howling of the drunken patreons outside his window, and by the most unwelcome of dreams.

 

_ Ika tha nke rius Zanka Tdaterius! _

The words echoed around the dark chasm. He could hear their voices, but couldn’t see their faces. They were dark, cloaked in shadow and absent of eyes, of souls.

_ Ika tha nke rius Zanka Tdaterius! _

The words echoed again, black skulls shooting into the ground from Lucien’s palms. The undead heroes of legend arose, draped in rotten flesh.

Lucien’s cackling, his empty skull, his crooked features. It drew them in, like a siren song.

Jahaan found himself crying out, “Hazelmere, stop! He’s too powerful!”

Hazelmere did not look back, did not turn, but kept walking, ever so slowly, to his demise.

_ Ika tha nke rius Zanka Tdaterius! _

Hazelmere began to shatter into crystals, turquoise and cyan, the colour of his spells. “The decision has been made,” his words were faint, “goodbye, my friends.”

They were final. His words were his last.

The others followed.

Turael.

Harrallak.

Mazchna.

Lassyai.

“Go, NOW!” Cyrius called, his scream shaking the cavern walls, blue eyes tearing through Jahaan. “We’ll hold him off!”

He tried to run. Not away, but towards. Always towards. "I'm not leaving you!" 

He couldn’t move.

He could never move.

A grip on his shoulder. Ozan.

He tried to pull away, screaming and clawing and begging and pleading.

The world erupted in light, as it always did.

_ Ika tha nke rius Zanka Tdaterius! _

The site of Lucien’s maniacal glare was the last thing he saw before he woke up, screaming and shaking, a puddle of sweat soaking through his garments.

Panting desperately for breath, he looked around the room, trying to focus on something solid, something real, as he repeated over and over, “He’s dead… he’s dead… he’s dead… they’re all dead…”

 

After another few hours of tossing and turning, Jahaan eventually gave up on bedrest and decided he’d lick his wounds on the walk to the Tree Gnome Stronghold. Besides, he’d been cooped up in the tiny little room for close to twenty four hours now, emerging only for nutrition in the form of a summer pie, before returning to his slumber once more.

Once he decided he couldn’t stand the bland walls enclosing him in anymore, Jahaan grabbed his belongings and entered the dusk-soaked town.

However, he didn’t get much further past the archery shop and down an isolated side-street before he heard, “Leaving so soon, World Guardian?”

Without hesitation, Jahaan slashed both of his swords from their sheaths, spinning around to face the origin of the silky, sinister voice. As predicted, Sliske was there, the remnants of shadows dissipating from around his ankles.

“Why so hostile, Janny?” His eyes sparkled with amusement, his smile a thin line.

“What do you mean ‘why so hostile’?” Jahaan challenged, his teeth gritted, feet firmly planted into the rough dirt sidewalk below. “Does, ‘I’m just getting started with you’ and ‘all bets are off’ ring any bells?”

For his part, Sliske looked mildly startled, then he waved his hand in a dismissive notion. “Oh yes, yes, but that was days ago.”

At this, Jahaan recalled something Azzanadra had remarked, about Sliske’s mood changing like the weather, but he wasn't about to let his guard down and be tricked by Sliske’s attempt at sincerity. “Why don’t we just cut to the chase: what do you want, Sliske?”

From the way his thin smile turned into a massive grin, Jahaan realised he wasn’t going to get out of this that easily. “Now there's a question! What  _ do  _ I want? World peace, perhaps? Or... a puppy? Maybe I just want to be left alone.”

_ If it’s the last one, there’s many ways you can fuck off that I’d be glad to show you, _ Jahaan internally grumbled to himself, but found that to be the last gasp of his anger, replaced mainly with tired frustration.

Exasperated, Jahaan let his swords drop slightly; with eyes that were world-weariness personified, he looked up Sliske and said, “Why don’t for once - just for once - you give me a straight answer?”

Sliske seemed to ponder this. “Hmm… what an interesting proposition. Very well, you get ONE straight answer. Ask your question.”

Jahaan blinked. He hadn’t considered that Sliske would take him seriously.

Yet Sliske waited, patiently, his mouth upturned slightly as he watched with anticipation the cogs in Jahaan’s head turn.

If Sliske was being earnest, there would be a few useful routes to take. Was he really a god? Has he really used the Stone of Jas? What were his plans? The pressure of the options made Jahaan just want to say ‘fuck it’ and ask something trivial, like what his favourite colour was.

But as he scrolled through these questions in his mind, one kept creeping back to the forefront with increased prominence.

Having decided, he sheathed his swords, testing the waters to see how Sliske would react. When no move was made, he looked back up at Sliske and simply asked, “Why me?”

Furrowing his forehead, Sliske remarked, “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

Jahaan gesticulated wildly, trying to find the words. “Why… ME? Why am  _ I _ at the centre of all this?”

Sliske was quiet for a moment, losing the amusement in his voice. “Be careful wasting your one question on something I cannot answer.”

“You said you’d give a straight answer!” Jahaan protested.

“I did, and this is as straight an answer as I can give you,” Sliske assured, his tone a shade softer than usual. “The truth is, I don’t KNOW ‘why you’. Sure, I can play my part, pull my strings here and there, but there are things beyond all of our control. Fate has no master, Jahaan. Not you, not me, not Zaros - though he’d certainly try his luck. Perhaps there is a divine and mystical reason why you’re at the centre of events. Perhaps you just got lucky, or unlucky, depending on your outlook.”

“But why do YOU keep lurking around me?” Jahaan pressed, given a grain and wanting a gallon. “You said you’d been following me, way back at the Ritual… why? Why… why any of this?!”

The humour was back. “Now, now. Don't be greedy. I did just say one. You do like to push your luck... but I suppose that's one of your better qualities.”

Jahaan muttered something barely audible under his breath, shooting Sliske a look that required no explanation.  _ It would have been as much use asking him his favourite colour, _ he grumbled internally.

“So,” Sliske began, sizing Jahaan up and down with a flash of his eyebrows. “what's next for you and I?”

“Well that depends, doesn’t it,” Jahaan found the confidence to size Sliske up right back. “On how out of hand your silly little game gets.”

“My game is not ‘silly’ Jahaan,” Sliske’s tone was warning. “You’ll realise that soon enough.”

“Then I’ll end it, and if needs must, I’ll end  _ you _ .”

Sliske’s grin grew wicked, full of darkened amusement. “Oooo! I knew there was a reason I liked you! Come at me, World Guardian! Who knows? You might even win.”

Sliske took a stride forwards, but this time, Jahaan refused to flinch. The Mahjarrat took this as a challenge, not an invitation; as he stepped closer, he said, “That’s enough chit-chit for one day… but before I go, I have a little gift for you.”

Jahaan was practically being towered over by Sliske by now. “I don’t want anything from you,” he stoically stated.

“Don't you even want a peek?” Sliske taunted. “You'll like it - it's a doozy.”

Glaring upwards, Jahaan maintained, “I’m not interested, Sliske.”

“Well the thing is, World Guardian… you don’t have a choice.”

Sliske’s hand shot outwards; Jahaan made for his sword, but he couldn’t unsheath it in time, managing just to pull it half way before he screamed as Sliske’s spell made contact.

Luckily, the pain didn’t last long, and when he opened his eyes, he found his vision slightly… altered. The shadows were more pronounced, and colours were slightly muted around where Sliske was standing.

“What did you do to me?!”

Such shadows began to curl around their master and Sliske retreated backwards, a telling smile carved into his features. “You have such beautiful eyes, Jahaan. I merely…  _ enhanced them _ for you. Now you can see into the Shadow Realm, with a bit of practice. Next time, I want you to see me coming…”

With that, the shadows engulfed the Mahjarrat, and he faded away. His cackling laughter remained with Jahaan after he left.

Despite furiously rubbing his eyes and trying to blink rapidly as if he were dislodging a piece of sand, he couldn’t help but notice the extra dimension Sliske’s ‘gift’ had given his eyesight. It felt like an extra sense, but an unwanted one.

After taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, Jahaan started walking, hoping to make it to the Tree Gnome Stronghold within a couple of days of good pacing. At least then, if he was allowed to take a glider to Prifddinas, he could ask the elves to try and rectify the damage Sliske had done (and maybe fix the burns on his face while they were at it, but that was a cosmetic fix - not as important).

 

However, in order to access the glider, the king of the gnomes - King Narnode Shareen - requested that Jahaan help recover the 10th Squad who had gone missing in uncharted territory. This ended up being a LONG diversion, for the island the 10th Squad were trapped on was inhabited by intelligent (and very violent) monkeys.

By the time he’d recovered the squad, weeks had passed and he’d discarded the idea of Prifddinas for the time being, accidentally falling into yet another distraction. At the same time, he’d gotten quite used to his new eyesight. Looking to be glass half full for a change, he realised that with this ‘gift’ he really could sense if Sliske was nearby. That is, if he figured out how to properly see in to the Shadow Realm. He was practising, yes, but it didn’t exactly come easy to a mortal.

Still, it was another string to his bow. Any weapon is a good weapon, in trained hands, and anything to help put him on an equal footing with Sliske was more than appreciated.

He’d also taken to trying his hand at magic. With whatever money he could accumulate, or as rewards from the various people he helped along the way, Jahaan had begun stockpiling runes in an effort to try and raise his mage game. The feeling of controlling spells from his palms was a rush akin to no other, but he didn’t want to repeat the same mistakes he made on Freneskae - his face was still scarred over.

Due to their nature, Mahjarrat and many divine entities need no power source to fuel magical spells - it’s innate within them. Humans, on the other hand, do. The most available source is runes, brought to Gielinor by Guthix in the First Age and spread across the world. The lower tier runes were easy for anyone to get ahold of and train with, shops stocking them in almost every major town. You can craft your own if you’re capable, and it’s a rather lucrative venture, but Jahaan decided that training one major skill was enough at the moment. Runecrafting could wait.

While Zaros was inhabiting his body he had a divine source of magic to fuel any Ancient Magick spell he could think of, but Jahaan had only managed a few of the basic blast spells, and even that left him with some unpleasant scarring.

Next time he had to fight with magic, he’d be better, Jahaan kept telling himself, and it was that sort of determination that kept him practicing almost every day.

 

Months passed, and Jahaan found himself getting rather comfortable with the basic spells. He could summon fire blasts consistently, with power and accuracy. Same went for air and water spells. He considered himself rather proficient in them, if he allowed himself the arrogance of admitting that. Of course, he’d yet to try them out in a combat situation - training dummies hardly put up the fight muspah did - but he was confident in his ability.

Next would be the Ancient Magicks, whenever he could save up enough for the special runes required.

Notable in his (unusual) absence during this time was Sliske. After giving Jahaan the ‘gift’ of seeing into the Shadow Realm, he had yet to make an appearance. Jahaan frequently tried to hone into the Shadow Realm in an effort to detect him, but honestly, it just gave him a migraine.

_ Perhaps I’m doing it wrong… _

His paranoia wasn’t exactly letting up; he expected Sliske to appear in the doorway, around the corner, draping himself like a silk-donned vulture over the bar he was drinking at, and yet he didn’t.

Sliske’s disappearance was…  _ troubling…  _ to Jahaan. He expected to see him, and he never did, and found his thoughts casually drifting to the Mahjarrat.  _ Where is he? What is he doing? What stupid shit is he planning this time? _

These were thoughts he did not care to waste his time and brain-space with, and yet, the thoughts didn’t cease. He battled against them, but it didn’t help.

He refused to admit that maybe, just maybe, a part of him missed the company.

Then again, another part of him was thoroughly relieved he didn’t have to deal with Sliske’s antics for the time being. The Mahjarrat was a bit too much.

Besides, Jahaan was the World Guardian, and while Sliske had two of the elder artifacts to use for his own disturbed amusement, he was the enemy of Gielinor.

Jahaan found that he was reminding himself of this more and more.

So Jahaan did what he always did when his own mind became the enemy - he preoccupied himself with his surroundings, and found that he soon lost himself in yet another adventure... 


	27. Traveller's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 07: DISHONOUR AMONG THIEVES  
> Chapter 1 - Traveller's Tale
> 
> Due to his status as the World Guardian, Jahaan wound up as part of Zamorak’s heist team. Their task? Steal the Stone of Jas from Sliske and return its power to Zamorak. Jahaan gets to learn more about a god propaganda had always skewed, but will he be on board with Zamorak’s plan in the end...

Jahaan had always existed as a ‘have sword’ and ‘will travel’ kind of person.

He had run across a few hapless souls in his travels, requesting his assistance in one way or another, and he’d obliged as much as he could - being an adventurer, it came with the territory. Then there were those people that weren’t as much ‘hapless’ as they were ‘helpless’, like a chef that didn’t have the right ingredients and for  _ some reason _ couldn’t just walk to the farm and get some himself; Jahaan tried to help them anyway. Reward was always promised, and he ate well that night.

Then there were the outright bizarre situations Jahaan didn’t realise he was stuck in the middle of until he was playing matchmaker between a yeti and a Fremennik queen, or brewing rum for pirates to keep the alcoholic zombies at bay, or stealing footwear for a genie who requested the ‘sole’ of the Mayor of Nardah.

Life in the adventuring world was crazy sometimes.

Now that he’d become the World Guardian, things had only gotten worse. Seems like everyone thinks Guthix’s ‘chosen one’ can solve their problems, and no amount of explaining the whole ‘right place, right time’ mantra helped. Still, if he was being brutally honest with himself, Jahaan quite liked the attention, the travelling, the questing… all the reasons he’d set off from Menaphos with sword in hand in the first place.

This time, he ended up playing matchmaking for trolls, gave marriage counselling to a seagull, helped liberate the fairies from the ork invaders, invented bacon and, best of all, dealt with penguins wanting to take over Gielinor and trying to freeze the desert with a portable fridge.

_ Sir Tiffy was right all along. _

Still, he found it quite refreshing to not be dealing with any egocentric gods, or idiot Mahjarrat trying to ascend to godhood.

That was a nice change.

 

“...and then, the the goblin generals needed orange slices that weren’t orange, some maggots that weren’t bland, and some bread that wasn’t crunchy!”

Jahaan had finally met up with Ozan all the way back in Varrock after he’d promised to help Queen Ellamaria decorate her palace garden - the ordeal was NOT worth Her Royal Snobbishness’ behaviour - and began recounting his tales since the two departed almost eight months ago. It had been a long time apart, yes, but life had separated them in the past. Some way, somehow, they always found one another, usually at a bar. This time it was The Blue Moon Inn, quite near the centre of the city, and therefore packed to the brim with the usual Varrockian riff-raff. Most of the attention was around the famous ex-vampyre slayer, Dr Harlow, who’d stopped by for an ale on his way east.

Chuckling, Ozan took another glug of his bitter. “So what did you do?”

“Dye and spice was involved. The pot ended up exploding anyway - shot through the roof and all! It’s a miracle there was anything edible after that.”

“Well, they are goblins.”

“Aye, that they are,” Jahaan concurred, finishing up his drink. The cup was refilled before he had time to protest. “So how’s Ariane?”

“She’s alright, but spending a lot of time in the Wizards’ Tower as of late. She had a premonition about the tower up in flames. Ariane was a seer - you gotta take visions like that seriously, y’know?”

Biting his bottom lip, Jahaan agreed, “Of course. These seer and gypsy types are frighteningly accurate sometimes…”

After Ozan finished his round, he looked out of the window into the night sky and remarked, “Damn, how long have we been in here?”

“Enough to build up quite a nice tab,” the barman sauntered over with a smug smile, wiping down the spillage underneath Ozan’s glass.

Wincing, Ozan ventured, “No chance I could reduce that tab with an enthralling tale of how I stole Sir Vyvin’s armour?”

“No chance,” the bartender asserted, his smile broadening. “And you owe me for the damage that little troll runt of yours has caused.”

Eyes wide, Ozan bulked, “Don’t call Coal a runt!”

“Whatever,” he slid across a messily written tally on papyrus. “Here’s the tab. Cough up.”

 

After shilling out his hefty portion of the tab, his coin pouch feeling an awful lot lighter now, Ozan and Jahaan departed to their rooms, saying they’d meet up in the morning to walk to Draynor together. Jahaan had some unfinished business with a chef in Lumbridge, so it wasn’t too far out of his way.

Jahaan entered his rented room and closed the door behind him, the sounds of the Varrockian bustle fading into the background. 

However, that didn’t last for long; the familiar sounds of a teleport spell alerted him to the intruder’s presence first, and he drew his swords in the direction of the disruption.

 

Soldiers had come into the war hospital in Al Kharid telling stories of a twisted, hybrid of a woman. Something inhuman, but not like any race they’d ever encountered. She was Zamorak’s right hand, a fierce general under his command. Gold-plated armour clawed around her bony form, her skin iron-like with patches of something that resembled normal flesh, but hardened and slightly scaly. Magenta energy twirled itself around her arms and wrists constantly, a low crackle becoming white noise in Jahaan’s mind. Her eyes were a striking shade of pink, too, matching the gem she had embedded in her forehead.

“Greetings, World Guardian,” her voice was harsh and brittle as she remarked, “You are not a hard man to find.”

Jahaan edged a couple of inches backwards, allowing the tall woman room to breathe. “I know you. You were at the Battle of Lumbridge.”

“Moia,” the woman introduced, simply. “Your swords. I’m not here to parry. Put them away.”

“A stranger just barged into my hostel room. Forgive me if I’m less than welcoming.”

Sighing, Moia rubbed the crystal on her forehead. “Very well. I come here on behalf of my master. He wishes to recruit you to retrieve something of his. The reward will be handsome.”

“No need to mince words - you want me to steal something,” this wasn’t the first time he’d been requested to ‘retrieve’ something. Jahaan didn’t mind - it paid for his meals, after all. “What’s the prize?”

“The Stone of Jas.”

Jahaan did a double take, his expectations shooting up. “Oh yeah? And who’s your master?”

“The rightful god of Gielinor, Lord Zamorak.”

...and his expectations were thus cut down a little bit. “Yeah, I haven’t had many dealings with Zamorakians.”

“Isn’t it time you rectify that?” Moia suggested, impatience bubbling under her desperate attempt to appear civil. “I did not see you fighting for Saradomin in Lumbridge. There is hope for you yet.”

“Yeah, but didn’t Zamorak lose at Lumbridge?” the remark wasn’t meant to sound as insulting as it did, but when Jahaan saw the mist boiling around Moia’s palms, he regretted his careless tongue.

Swallowing hard, Moia forced the mist to decapitate. “They were dark days. Zamorak is healing, and will get revenge upon those who fought against him. But right now, there are more pressing matters. I repeat: the Stone of Jas.”

Jahaan inquired, “Why does Zamorak want to hire me? I’ve never exactly seen eye-to-eye with his chaos ideology.”

“My lord believes you are instrumental, and if he does, then so do I,” Moia explained, brushing her fringe from her eyes. “We are in need of your… unique skills.”

“Because I’m the World Guardian?” Jahaan surmised. It wasn’t a hard guess.

“Precisely. Somehow, your fate is bound to the events that are unfolding. We wish for you to be on the right side of history. Zamorak requests a meeting. Agree, and you shall discover where your true loyalties should lie. Assist in our mission, and you get to strip Sliske of his power source and end his little farce once and for all.”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Jahaan began to grin. “The least I could do is hear him out.”

Moia didn’t smile. Jahaan didn’t think she was capable. Instead, she retrieved a device from her utility belt. It was a tiny little box with a dial on it. Nothing fancy. Handing it to Jahaan, she stated, “Use this to be transported to our headquarters. You will arrive promptly on Erysail at full sun.”

Sheathing his swords, Jahaan took the device, and after a brief ‘farewell’, Moia teleported herself away. Jahaan watched her form fade away, utterly baffled, fiddling with the device in his hands as a reminder that he didn’t just dream that encounter.

Slumping down on the edge of the bed, he tried to think why Moia looked so familiar, and yet so alien at the same time. She didn’t match the description of any race he’d ever heard of, let alone encountered.  _ That gem in her forehead was rather beautiful, _ he thought to himself, trying to unravel the mysteries of this woman.  _ It looked like… like the Mahjarrat gems. Was she another female Mahjarrat, like Enakhra? She wasn’t at the Ritual, and she doesn’t look completely like a Mahjarrat. A half-breed, perhaps? Is that possible? _

Suddenly, it tweaked in Jahaan’s mind -  _ It IS possible! Sliske mentioned Lucien mated with a human woman. Could Moia be the offspring? _

Feeling rather chuffed at his deductions, Jahaan was tempted to ask for confirmation upon next meeting her, but realised in good time that might be a little rude.

Removing his sword belt, Jahaan let these thoughts twirl on inside his mind as he began to unwind. Erysail was three days away, so he had time to decide whether or not he was going to take the meeting.

_ “What a tantalising proposition!” _

“Gahh!” Jahaan bolted forwards, his hand instinctively clutching into the handle of his sheathed dagger. He shot around with indignation in his eyes and saw Sliske materialise in the doorway. “Have you been here the whole time?!”

Tutting, Sliske replied, “Honestly Jahaan, what’s the use of having the ability to see into the Shadow Realm if you never use it?”

“That’s not answering my question!”

“Ah, you mean, did I hear your conversation with Moia? But of course! The girl was naive to think she could corner you without my knowing. Oh, and take your hand away from that little knife of yours. We both know you’re not going to use it.”

Jahaan didn’t budge. “Why are you here, Sliske?”

“Well, it’s like this,” Sliske began, “I know of Zamorak's plan to steal the Stone of Jas, and you know I know, but they don’t know that I know that they know.”

Jahaan shook his muddled head. “Wait... what?”

“Ha! Did I lose you? In short, I know that one of Zamorak’s agents has found the Stone, and they’ll come for it soon enough. When they do, I'll be waiting.”

“So... you want them to find it? Why?”

“My contest has slowed somewhat since Bandos's death. Sometimes a Mahjarrat must provide his own entertainment. I think it’s time to spice things up,” Sliske explained, casually making himself at home on the edge of Jahaan’s bed, his long and bony fingers exploring the floral patterns embedded in the duvet. Jahaan followed him with a calculated glare. “You know, you really aren’t a very welcoming host. You haven’t even offered me a drink.”

“You were saying?” Jahaan impatiently pressed, thinking the sooner the Mahjarrat got to the point, the sooner his hostel room would stop resembling a menagerie for the criminally insane.

“Right, yes, spicing things up - that's where you come in. If I were you, I’d lead them on, go and meet with ol’ Zammy. Then, wait until the most deliciously dramatic moment to betray the usurper! Together, we could have some real fun on this one.”

“And who says I’ll play along?” Jahaan challenged, smiling wryly. “Maybe I’ll like what Zamorak’s selling. Maybe I’ll join his cause.”

“Maybe you will... but that would be terribly boring now, wouldn’t it? You know, Zammy really is a lot of fun to deceive. Oh, how I used to play with him all those years ago…” Sliske stood up from the bed, his hunched over posture doing him a favour as Jahaan doubted he could stand up straight without hitting his head on the ceiling. “But I think you’re  _ much  _ more fun to play with, Janny.”

Jahaan forced himself not to flinch as Sliske approached him, half-lidded eyes and an amused smile carved into his striped face. He failed and shivered ever so slightly when Sliske cupped his chin, bony fingers digging lightly into his throat, tilting his head upwards.

The grip on his dagger tightened. Jahaan gulped, hissing sharply through gritted teeth, “Get off me.”

This only made Sliske smile more at the challenge; he leered down closer. “Or what?”

Sliske had barely gotten the last syllable out before Jahaan had his blade across the Mahjarrat’s throat, returning the challenging glare.

Sniffing a laugh, Sliske drawled, “Well, I did say to look me in the eyes as you slit my throat. So, what are you waiting for?”

He forced himself further into the blade, biting down on his grey flesh hard enough to draw a thin line of blood as his face loomed closer to Jahaan’s, his defiant eyes never leaving Jahaan’s green ones.

Matching this, Jahaan twisted the blade in such a way that it pressed tightly against the Mahjarrat’s jugular, watching with satisfaction as Sliske’s usual calm and collected expression flashed briefly with fleeting panic.

Sliske licked his lips and flashed a daring, thin smile. Seconds ticked on like years; Jahaan held his gaze steady, dancing across Sliske’s yellow iris’ which had an unmistakable glint in them.

_ It’d be so easy, _ Jahaan’s eyes narrowed into slits, steadying his breathing in order to prevent his hand from shaking, which was easier said than done. From the look in his eyes, it was almost as if Sliske was daring him to do it.

_I could._ _I could and he couldn’t stop me. He’s pressed too hard into the blade. It’d barely take a second and I could put him out of my misery. Out of everyone’s misery._

Now his hands really were shaking; Jahaan couldn’t look Sliske in the eyes anymore and instead rested his glare upon Sliske’s jaw, which soon transformed into a cruel upturned sneer. Blood trickled down Sliske’s neck as Jahaan’s unsteady grip caused the blade to scrape against his flesh; Jahaan could feel the rhythm of Sliske’s pulse beating against the metal, but he knew his own heartbeat was going even faster. As the blade dug dangerously deeper into the flesh, Sliske inhaled a sharp breath, hissing through the pain that came with it. 

Jahaan’s grip on the handle tightened; he was properly shaking now, closing his eyes in a desperate attempt to keep some resolve.

But it didn’t work.

With a foul curse, Jahaan threw the blade to the ground, a loud metallic clang on the battered wooden floorboards reverberating around the room. He tried to gain some distance from the Mahjarrat by backing himself up against the wall. By accident he met Sliske’s gaze, and it was a mistake, for it was like Sliske’s eyes were claws that grabbed his throat, squeezing tightly and cutting off the circulation. It made Jahaan’s attempt to recover his breathing even more of a struggle.

Sliske wiped the blood from his neck with his palm, examining it amusedly.

“I knew you couldn’t do it,” he remarked, a malicious undertone layered in his voice.

Gulping, Jahaan’s eyes fell to the floor as he rubbed the back of his neck and whispered, “Leave, Sliske. Please… just go.”

Raising a curious eyebrow, Sliske examined Jahaan like he was looking at him for the very first time. “You're an interesting specimen, Jahaan,” he finally spoke up. “Very well, I shall take my leave. After all, you have to regain your composure for the big meeting with Zamorak. Until next time... ta-ta, my dear…”

Blowing him a taunting kiss, Sliske vanished. Once he'd gone, Jahaan slid down the wall and onto the floor, his hand unconsciously still at his neck while his heart remained firmly in his throat.

 

Jahaan didn’t wait for Ozan next morning. Instead, he slid an apologetic note under the door, lying about an emergency - vague enough to cover all bases, specific enough to be believable. From the silence inside when Jahaan rested his ear against the splintered wooden door, Ozan was still sound asleep, and would likely stay that way for the next few hours. So, huddled up in a second-hand cloak he’d acquired, Jahaan set off into the brisk chill of a Varrockian dawn.

He wasn’t ready to explain himself to Ozan, how he had the opportunity to dispatch Gielinor’s greatest adversary, but couldn’t. But at the same time, Jahaan didn’t think he could take hiding it from Ozan much longer. Thus, the easiest option was to avoid him altogether, for now at least, until he’d figured things out in his own mind.

After tossing and turning for a lot of the night, Jahaan wasn’t much clearer on anything, so why a walk in the freezing cold would help is anyone’s guess. Nevertheless, along he trudged.

_ Why couldn’t I do it? _ The question haunted his mind relentlessly.  _ I’ve killed people for less. Why couldn’t I kill him? _

Jahaan sighed to himself, hoisting his backpack further up towards his shoulders, marching onwards, going nowhere.

“Damnit Sliske…” he muttered under his breath. “How dare you get in my head…”


	28. Abstract of Zamorak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 07: DISHONOUR AMONG THIEVES  
> Chapter 2 - Abstract of Zamorak
> 
> Due to his status as the World Guardian, Jahaan wound up as part of Zamorak’s heist team. Their task? Steal the Stone of Jas from Sliske and return its power to Zamorak. Jahaan gets to learn more about a god propaganda had always skewed, but will he be on board with Zamorak’s plan in the end...

“Care for a drink?” Zamorak held out an engraved chalice, the inscription a foreign dialect that was painful to look at. “I don’t know why assholes come into my churches and steal my wine. I’d make a mint if I just straight up sold it. Go legitimate and all.”

So yes, Jahaan did take the meeting. Right on time he used the communication device that whisked him away… somewhere. He was underground, that’s for sure. The claustrophobic feel of gravity assured him of that.

Zamorak had invited him into a chamber of sorts, akin to the dining room of a haunted mansion. The deity really did have a taste for the theatrical, what with the vampyric ornaments and arcane fixtures. Also, crimson. LOTS of crimson.

Zamorak practically blended into the walls.

He sat Jahaan down in a grand armchair of sorts, donned with decorative bones, and it made Jahaan feel like a supervillain.

Sniffing a faint laugh, Jahaan took the chalice and allowed Zamorak to fill it up to the brim with the thick red liquid, dark like blood. That last thought gave Jahaan pause before he put it to his lips, but after a quick sniff and being overwhelmed by the alcoholic, fruity scent, he assured himself it was indeed wine. “Thanks. I didn’t think Mahjarrat could drink, though.”

“We can’t,” Zamorak confirmed, taking a large gulp. “I’ll have to get it out of me later. Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy some good booze for now though.”

Not wanting to press for anymore details, Jahaan asked, “Where on Gielinor are we? Are… are we still on Gielinor?”

Laughing, Zamorak said, “Of course we’re still on Gielinor. This is temporary base of operations, courtesy of an old friend of mine - Bilrach - who you’ll meet later on. Dug the place himself, crazy bastard. Crazy, loyal, dedicated bastard, that is. You humans would know of it as ‘Daemonheim’.”

Eyes wide, Jahaan audibly gasped. Yes, he had heard of Daemonheim, mainly from stories. A band of Fremennik warriors decided to sail west around the globe, discovering uncharted islands and unclaimed lands as they did so. Daemonheim was their greatest find. Despite being a part of continental Gielinor, no-one had ventured that far in centuries, the unforgiving terrain putting a fatal halt to would-be adventurers. Thanks to the Freminnick, the place was now accessible, though you should pray for those who dare to enter the dungeons beneath the ancient castle atop the snow. Floor upon floor of monsters, puzzles, hazards and traps. No-one had ever made it to the bottom floor; the lucky ones retreated to the surface, the others were not so fortunate. No-one knew who had built such a place, or why. No-one, it seems now, except Jahaan.

Smirking, Zamorak remarked, “I’m glad you’re impressed. Not many have had the honour of stepping on such hallowed ground. It’s a good place to regroup, after the battle with Saradomin didn’t go as well as planned…”

“Yeah, how are the Zamorakians taking the defeat?” Jahaan inquired, taking a sip of the wine, far too bitter for his tastes.

“Better than you’d think. We lost a lot of forces, but I’m still swinging, and so are my Mahjarrat. Now I’m gonna to bypass this ridiculous little contest of Sliske’s and take back the Stone. Let’s see Saradomin stand tall then!”

Zamorak took a sip from his red wine, his eyes thoughtful and calculated, as the silence stretched on. After a while, he finally spoke up, “World Guardian, have you ever been told about Sliske’s plays?”

Jahaan furrowed his brow, stopping mid-sip, suddenly worried. “No…”

Zamorak grinned, the flesh stretching and pulling across bone. “Man, you’re going to love this. Sliske’s always been a twisted bastard, but this put it to whole new heights. See, back in the days of the Zarosian Empire, we Mahjarrat were given pretty high-class roles - our reward for taking out the Menaphites. Half of us got chosen as generals and lieutenants in the army - known as 'Legati' in Infernal - while the other half were churchleaders, or 'Pontifixes'. Sliske, due to his…  _ unusual predilections _ ...  was given the rank of Praefectus Praetorio - the head of Senntisten’s secret police. Investigation, spying, interrogation… you can see how the role was built for him. In his free time, he was always writing. Stories, plays, even pathetic attempts at poetry. His plays were the most fucked up, performed for the top ranks of Senntisten, like urbane demons, bureaucrats… you know, the types of assholes that could afford to watch his nonsense. To make the plays, he rounded up the low caste and homeless, dressed them up in costumes, and placed upon each a crude wooden mask, which he whittled himself. Sliske gave the word, and the masks started doing their thing; they’d speak aloud, control the actor’s movements, making ‘em jerkily act and mime his play like demented puppets. Sometimes the actors actually stabbed each other to death with their weapons at the play's climax. In one show, one of the actors died - probably of some disease - in the middle of the performance, but the mask kept animating his corpse and the show went on. Sick, right? Worst part is, the audience lapped it up! Sliske went on to perform it about a dozen or so more times before growing bored - as he is prone to do - and moving onto something else. No-one dared speak up against him. After all, who wants to be at the centre of a Praetorian investigation?”

Mouth hung open, Jahaan sat there in horror, his mind doing him the courtesy of picturing every grotesque and gruesome detail. He was starting to feel nauseous because of it, and the wine probably wasn’t helping matters. It took him a while before he could collect himself enough to exclaim, “Didn’t… didn’t Wahisietel say something?!”

Zamorak laughed sharply and so suddenly that Jahaan spilt a bit of his wine. “His brother gave up on his ways long before that. Sliske’s always been fucked in the head, even back on Freneskae, playing with corpses with childlike glee. There’s something seriously wrong with him. There was one of our kind, old Nabor - boring as dry brick but he was pretty sharp. He ran the insane asylum in Senntisten, became quite the psychologist while he did. He once remarked to me how he’d love to study Sliske, to really figure out what was up with him. Never dared invite him for a session, though. I used to see him and Wahisietel chatting - they were close. No doubt Sliske came up in their conversations.”

Jahaan made a mental note to confer with Wahisietel when the opportunity arose.

But in all this, one thing became clear to him more than ever before: Sliske knew everything about him, but he knew nothing of Sliske.

Shaking the cobwebs from his mind, Jahaan rounded back to something less… horrifying. “Senntisten doesn’t seem like such a bad place. Your kind were well taken care of, from what you tell me, so why’d you leave Zaros?”

“Depends on who you ask,” Zamorak confessed, his fingers, unblemished and marble-white, scratching absently at his face. “Ask my followers and they’ll all tell you a different story. Some think it was just a political coup, that I wanted to gain power with no endgame, or that I’d had a falling out with the ‘Empty Lord’. Truth is, we needed to break free from Zaros. He wanted to know our every move, our every thought. When we went on missions, Zaros made us take along a man named Perjour, someone he’d cursed to be his bibliographer. Everything thought that man had, every single thing he witnessed, would be transcribed in a little book, which Zaros would sift through, looking for any seeds of betrayal from his followers. It was oppressing.”

“So how did you get around that?” Jahaan inquired, drawn in by the energy Zamorak brought to his tales.

Grinning wickedly, Zamorak boasted, “I stole the book, switched it with a copy. Zaros was none the wiser. And thus, the seeds of rebellion were sewn.”

The last comment was followed by a wink as he swirled around the wine in his class, looking all-too proud of himself. It seemed all Mahjarrat were capable of that unique form of unnerving smugness.

But something still stuck in Jahaan’s craw; he hesitated, and Zamorak picked up on this. “Come on, just come out with it.”

Exhaling deeply, Jahaan begun, “Alright… your chaos theory hasn’t been painted in the best light across Gielinor. Is all of it really propaganda? What about the Culinaromancer? Count Malak? Lord Iban? And don’t get me started on those dark wizards…”

Rolling his eyes, Zamorak’s annoyance looked of one who had dealt with this before. “Okay, yes, we have a few bad eggs. It’s a damn shame cos we started out so promising. Many came to me because they were fleeing or rejecting some aspect of authority within the Empire, and a philosophy that prized individuality over structure, society or government was just what they were after. But over time this developed into a very unhealthy anarchism; some followers ‘misinterpret’ my philosophy, twisting my words and using it as an excuse to steal, torment, attack… wanting to watch the world burn is nothing I’ve ever preached. But Saradominsts take these few radicals and think we’re all like that. They spew out propaganda against us, saying we’re all evil monsters and anarchists. The few have ruined it for the many.”

“I hate that people think I’m evil,” Zamorak continued, gulping down another swig of wine and instantly refilling himself. “Yeah, I’ve done some pretty bad shit in my time, but who hasn’t? War is messy. If you want your hands clean, become a chef. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for the betterment of my followers, for the Mahjarrat, and for Gielinor. Saradominism is all about ‘join with me and you’ll never have strife again’. We all know that’s just bullshit. Zamorakianism is all about ‘strength through chaos’, about knowing that life can deal you a crappy hand, but it’s that struggle and misery that can shape who you are and make you into a stronger, better person. Take you, World Guardian - I doubt your life has been all roses and daisies, right?”

“You could say that.”

“I AM saying that. But tell me, think back… if all that hadn’t happened to you, would you be where you are now, decked out in fine armour, drinking fine wine, talking to a damn fine god?”

A thin smile spread across Jahaan’s face. He  _ understood _ .

As Zamorak spoke more about his chaos philosophy, Jahaan was inclined to buy what Zamorak was selling. A lot of his ideologies matched with Jahaan’s own views, and the deity was nothing if not captivating.

_ It’s just a shame some of his followers are so unbearable,  _ Jahaan internally groaned at the thought of Zemouregal.

But then again, when it came to philosophy, Jahaan’s world view overlapped a lot with that of Zarosianism. Guthixianism, too. After all, once you’re there for the final words of one of the world’s most powerful deities, you form a  _ connection _ .

Saradominsm did have some decent arguments, Jahaan would admit to himself, but he could never fall on board with the ideology, and definitely not the lifestyle. As for Armadyl, he hadn’t ever really heard much from the winged deity, aside from his triumph over Bandos. It was too early to call a judgement on him yet.

There was always the Menaphite Pantheon, the ‘go-to’ religion for the desert-born.

_ Gahh… these labels serve more harm than good… _ Jahaan grumbled to himself, fighting down another gulp of the wine.

 

While Zamorak tended to some business, the details of which he never specified, Jahaan was offered a teleport to the central chamber of the lair. Feeling it might be considered rude to refuse, and not wanting to accidentally go through the wrong door into one of Daemonheim’s rumoured horror chambers, Jahaan accepted, and with Jahaan’s permission, Zamorak's spell whisked him away.

The centre part of the lair Jahaan was as over the top as it was terrifying. Complete with lava fountains, torches of tall flames and crackling fire, grotesque chiselled statues of beasts and nightmares, and a crimson tiled floor with the Zamorakian symbol crudely embedded into it… this place didn’t exactly scream ‘happy fun time’. In fact, if Zamorak was trying to shake the ‘evil villain’ image the Saradominist propaganda department were creating, this wasn’t helping.

The chamber wasn’t massive in size, but its grandiose excessiveness more than made up for it.

Jahaan manifested in the centre of the room; a throne comprised of black marble and blood red horns strung across it directly faced him, while short hallways to the east and west had imposing doors adorned with skulls at either end.

The heat was also comparable to that of Freneskae.

Immediately, countless sets of eyes leered at him from all around, the present company of gathered Zamorakians all stopping to size up the newest arrival.

Feeling awkward, but not wanting to let it show, Jahaan strode over to one of the large pillars and casually leaned up against it, crossing his arms over his chest with an air of defiance, like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be here. However, he carefully avoided eye contact with anyone, subtly exploring the room with a low glance.

 

There were two Mahjarrat that Jahaan didn’t recognise from the Ritual of Rejuvenation. One, a bulky looking fellow draped in thick, tattered cloaks. There was a presence about him, a power that rattled through his very being. He looked solid; while all Mahjarrat are technically immortal, this one actually  _ felt  _ it. It was almost unnerving. Yet, undermining that were his eyes - they looked haunted, flicking between the ceiling, the walls, the floor, like he was hearing sounds from all directions and trying to gravitate towards the strongest voice.

_ But if he missed the Ritual, why doesn’t he look all... half-dead? _ Jahaan pondered to himself, hoping he didn’t look like he was staring.

The other Mahjarrat, on the other hand, did look worse for wear. Hazeel, he was known as. Jahaan had heard stories about his cult of followers in Ardougne, and how he’d ruled over the lands way back in the Fourth Age with brutality and fear. It was the Carnillean Family that became his end, alongside Saradominist peasants who, upon learning magic and runecrafting, wished to liberate their lands from the Zamorakian tyranny. They didn’t manage to kill Hazeel, but they trapped him in a state of torpor, neither living nor dead. His skeletal appearance did have a rather blood-curdling quality about it. Unlike the other Mahjarrat, he had very large horns protruding from his forehead, looking quite similar to the headpiece Azzanadra wore. These, however, were sharpened into deadly points.

Jahaan wasn’t quite sure how the two Mahjarrat could look so different - one full of life and vigor, the other frail and weak.

_ If I tread carefully, perhaps I could find out?  _ Jahaan thought to himself, not quite looking forward to conversing with even more Zamorakian Mahjarrat than he had to, but his curiosity drove him onwards.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he strolled over to the rejuvenated looking one, greeting him with a respectful nod of his head. “I’m Jahaan. Zamorak sent for me. I don’t think we’ve met before...”

The trailed-off sentence was an indication to fill in the blanks, but the Mahjarrat seemed rather perturbed at Jahaan’s presence. Jahaan didn’t think he was going to get a response and planned on awkwardly shuffling away, pretending that never happened as he did so, but the Mahjarrat’s sudden response startled him into staying. “Bilrach. I am Bilrach. Forgive me, human contact is taking some getting used to.”

_ Seems nice enough, _ Jahaan decided with relief. Not wanting to let the conversation go dry for too long, he continued, “Pleased to meet you, Bilrach. I was at the last Ritual of Rejuvenation, but I don’t remember seeing you there. You… you look well, though. Lots of… skin.”

“I was digging,” Bilrach bluntly replied. “Always digging, digging, digging… they thought this to be my tomb, but it was my salvation. The rift did not provide answers alone, though.”

Quickly, Jahaan deduced Bilrach was not shuffling with a full deck. "Ah yes, Zamorak mentioned that you dug this place yourself."

Bilrach nodded. “Centuries I dug, trying to find the rift between realities, the place where the bond between worlds is at its weakest. Here, I was going to find Zamorak and pull him back to Gielinor. I did not succeed, but this chamber is the product of my labour.”

“But if you missed the Ritual, how come you look so powerful?” Jahaan inquired, hoping the subtle compliment would work in his favour.

From the shift in Bilrach's demeanor, it seemed to work. “Ah, yes! Instead, after tumbling through the dimensions, I arrived on my home planet of Freneskae. There are no longer any of my kind there, but other tribes once existed. The Chelon-Mah and Mahserrat, born from the same energy as we Mahjarrat. It was then that I had an epiphany. Hmm.”

Silence. After it was clear Bilrach was indeed lost inside his own head, Jahaan gently prodded, “And what was that?”

“Ah, yes. The other tribes were also bound to rituals, needing the life force of those that perish to sustain themselves. The Mahserrat decided to forgo this process, resigning themselves to a fate without rejuvenation. But the Chelon-Mah… hmm. The Chelon-Mah did the opposite. They concluded that only the strongest should live, yes. One almighty being, commanding the power of the entire tribe. I remember it. The battle blazed across the horizon – a glorious sight to behold, indeed. For weeks they fought tirelessly, until only one remained with all their power. A brutal incarnation of the Chelon-Mah tribe; the physical embodiment of war. Yes, his might on the battlefield was unparalleled.”

“What does this have to do with your epiphany?”

“Epiphany?” Bilrach blinked. “Oh, yes. I knew that after thousands of years whilst the Mahjarrat have grown stronger, the Chelon-Mah would have diminished. With the Mahserrat all likely to have perished and no kin to sacrifice, he would never have been able to rejuvenate. I returned to Gielinor with the once-great Chelon-Mah captive. I slew him upon my very own Ritual Marker.”

Jahaan gasped. “That worked?!”

“Apparently so. The rejuvenation was an unintended effect of his death. A strange power spread throughout the surface - you may have even felt it yourself. My kin would have believed me perished. But I live.”

“But if you didn’t know you’d be rejuvenated, why did you kill him?”

“On Freneskae we were at war with the Chelon-Mah; with no kin left to test his strength he turned to the Mahjarrat,” Bilrach gravely explained, his eyes flitting over to the two doorways parallel to him. “He killed many of my brethren. Taking his life was a justice long overdue. As the only Mahjarrat at the Ritual Marker when I slew him, I was able to absorb all his power, hmm. I thought I could use this new power to bring back Zamorak. Alas, I still did not find the answers I sought. It would seem it is exceptionally difficult for anyone but a god to open a portal between worlds.”

Remembering Zamorak’s words from before, Jahaan thought to inquire into why Bilrach defected from Zaros to Zamorak, but by the change in tone and demeanour he received from Bilrach, he wished he’d never rocked the boat.

“You know nothing of the Mahjarrat, impling, and neither did Zaros,” Bilrach’s gravelly voice sounded like he’d inhaled too much Daemonheim dust. Though his voice was monotonous and grounded, his eyes seemed to dart and flicker. “We were warriors, brave survivors. In the Empire we grew soft. Zaros took our culture from us, tried to tame our nature, making us priests and bureaucrats - such positions are a disgrace to the Mahjarrat name! Zamorak reminded us of our birthright.”

“Ah, I see you’re getting yourself acquainted,” a feminine voice faded in beside the pair, relieving the tension Jahaan had created. Moia walked up to stand beside Bilrach with the friendliest smile her contorted face could manage. “Jahaan, why don’t I introduce you to everyone else while we await my master’s presence?”

“Sure,” Jahaan agreed, following Moia’s lead with a quick look over his shoulder at Bilrach, who seemed to be muttering something under his breath. To Moia, he asked, “Do you know Bilrach well?”

“I do,” Moia replied, solemnly. “He and I held hands as we walked into the rift together. But we were torn apart. I thought him lost. I found Zamorak, and he arrived on Freneskae.”

Stopping their walk across the chamber, Moia leaned down towards Jahaan to speak lowly, “Bilrach has sacrificed a lot in order to provide my master sanctuary. When I first found him, he was… unrecognisable. Now, he tells me the voices have subsided at the very least. I… I still fear for him.”

Not exactly sure what he was expected to say, Jahaan went with, “I’ll look out for him.”

This was the wrong answer; Moia shot him a glare that could melt mithril. “He doesn’t need you looking out for him.”

She stormed off across the chamber, sharply motioning for Jahaan to follow with a reluctant grunt of, “Come on.”


	29. Chaos of Corruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 07: DISHONOUR AMONG THIEVES  
> Chapter 3 - Chaos of Corruption
> 
> Due to his status as the World Guardian, Jahaan wound up as part of Zamorak’s heist team. Their task? Steal the Stone of Jas from Sliske and return its power to Zamorak. Jahaan gets to learn more about a god propaganda had always skewed, but will he be on board with Zamorak’s plan in the end...

The first man - well, man-ish - he was introduced to was Jerrod, a dark-skinned unkempt looking fellow from the lands of Canifis. Canifis had only one prominent export, and that was werewolves. Jerrod happened to be one of those. As soon as Jahaan had approached him, Jerrod began sniffing the air, the look of unsated bloodlust dancing in his red eyes.

“Von’t worry. I von’t eat associates,” through his thick accent, this was the most amount of reassurance Jahaan got from the werewolf, and decided to stay on the opposite end of the room to him as much as possible, especially since it was a full moon tonight.

 

Thankful to see another full-blooded human in the ranks, Jahaan felt most comfortable around the Lord of the Kinshra, Lord…

_ Oh blast, what was it again?  _ Jahaan cursed his memory.  _ Lord… Nefarious? No, that makes him sound like a pantomime villain. Precarious? No, just as bad… _

Jahaan silently prayed someone would say his name in the not too distant future so he could make a better mental note of it.

Lord Whatshisname was the youngest appointed leader of the Kinshra, the ‘Black Knights’ as they had come to be known. They were the force that has tried and failed on many occasions to conquer Falador in the name of Zamorak. Despite the Black Knights not having a very formidable reputation, their leader certainly looked like he could handle his sword. Decked out in striking black armour, trimmed with gold and crimson, with spikes on the shoulders and joints, Lord Whatshisname did not appear to offer fools gladly, a scowl permanently embedded in his scarred face.

 

“Don’t talk to me, human,” Zemouregal sized Jahaan up as soon as Moia brought him close enough, towering over him by an imposing foot and a half. He was standing beside an irritated looking Enakhra, who rolled her eyes as soon as Zemouregal opened his mouth. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“Ah, I see you two have already met,” Moia remarked, smiling exasperatedly to Enakhra with an expression that read,  _ ‘I know, right?’ _

“Look, we have a common goal, and a common enemy in Sliske,” Jahaan’s teeth were so gritted he felt as if they were going to shatter. “Can we call a truce, for your master’s sake?”

“He’s not my ‘master’,” Zemouregal sneered. “I’m ruled by no-one.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Zemouregal slashed forwards, the armour on his stomach smashing into Jahaan’s chest, knocking the man back a pace, but he quickly recovered ground. “Watch your tone with me, rodent,” he threatened, not even trying to mask the intent behind his words. “Zamorak may have business with you, but not me. You step one foot out of line and I’ll sever that tiny head from your shoulders, peel the skin like a grape and crush your skull in my fist.”

Jahaan did not think it was wise to point out that, after his head was severed, Zemouregal could play kickball with it and he wouldn’t care - he’d be dead, after all - but the angry Mahjarrat had definitely made his point. It’d be foolhardy to pick a fight with him; the room was full of Zamorakians who probably preferred a lukewarm glass of water over Jahaan.

Moia quickly ushered Jahaan away, and Enakhra worked to distract an angry Zemouregal.

The two kept their distance after that.

 

At least Hazeel seemed friendlier. Well, in comparison, a starving rottweiler is friendlier than Zemouregal. Jahaan had met Khazard at the Ritual of Rejuvenation, and their encounter was still fresh in the minds of both beings. From the glare Khazard was bearing down on him, Jahaan knew it’d be up to him to try and smooth things out.

One Mahjarrat enemy in the ranks was enough.

After nodding in greeting to Hazeel, Jahaan turned to Khazard and awkwardly scratched the back of his head. “Listen, I’m… I’m sorry about your dog.”

“His name was Bouncer,” Khazard stated. He looked a little startled by the apology, but he hid it well under a veil of resentment.

“Yes, I’m sorry about Bouncer,” Jahaan continued. “It all got pretty heated. I just… I love dogs, too. I wish he didn’t have to get hurt.”

“Do you have a dog?”

“Not anymore, but I kinda have a pet troll.”

Khazard seemed amused, his sorrow lifting slightly. “You have a pet troll?”

“Yeah, a baby troll. His name’s Coal,” relieved to find some common ground, Jahaan felt a weight lift off his shoulders. “I helped rescue him from Burthorpe.”

Khazard appeared to smile back. It was a strange sight to see. “What’s your name?”

Extending a hand to shake, Jahaan replied, “Jahaan. I know who both of you are. Your reputation precedes you.”

After having his dominant hand nearly crushed into pieces by the Mahjarrat grip, Jahaan regretted the act of courtesy. To Hazeel, he asked, “How did you get out of your coma?”

“Coma?” Hazeel fumbled the foreign word on his tongue. “If you mean the state of sleep those cowards put me in, I have Zamorak himself to thank for my liberation. He awoke me upon his return. After all, I am like a brother to him.”

“You missed a few Rituals though,” Jahaan winced, his eyes boring into the hollow sockets of Hazeel’s skull. “How do you feel?”

“I… am weakened, it is true,” Hazeel regretfully informed. “My life force is critical. I shall not be able to accompany you on whatever mission Zamorak has planned for us today. Once the next Ritual of Rejuvenation is complete, finally I will retake what is rightfully mine.”

“Ardougne?” Jahaan hazarded a guess.

“Precisely. I will reclaim that which was taken from me, just as Zamorak intends to reclaim the Stone of Jas.”

Khazard put a gloved hand on Hazeel’s thin shoulder. “There was a time when between us we controlled all of southern Kandarin. Our reign was glorious. With the combined might of our forces, we will crush them like ants under foot.”

Smiling with an empty jaw, Hazeel replied, “It has been too long, Khazard.”

“You taught me how to conquer. Now it is my turn to help you.”

Despite feeling like he’d awkwardly stumbled into a nice little bonding moment between the two Mahjarrat, Jahaan tried his luck with the Zaros question once again. Thankfully, Hazeel’s response was much more measured.

“Zaros was unfit to rule,” Hazeel declared. “We never spoke with him, or saw him in public. He only ever conferred with that pious Azzanadra. Zamorak spoke the truth, that the Empire was stagnating, the priesthood - headed by Azzanadra - was corrupt, and that we had to take back control.”

“And you, Khazard?” Jahaan inquired.

“I was born into the Zamorakian forces,” Khazard replied. “I am the youngest of my brothers, born on Gielinor during the God Wars. My mother, Palkeera, died during the Battle of Uzer, shortly after my birth.”

“And your father?”

Shrugging, Khazard attempted to look nonchalant, but his eyes darkened slightly. “No doubt he perished too.”

 

The last person Jahaan was ‘reintroduced’ to was Nomad, a Soul Mage that Jahaan had the  _ pleasure  _ of encountering once before, and it was NOT a pleasant experience. He was undying, a man that had cheated Death numerous times and had somehow grown in power after every defeat. Nomad was known to be an apprentice of the late Lucien, before obtaining enough power and battle prowess to challenge his former master.

Nomad’s large bald head had blue veins appearing through the thin skin, drawing patterns like a trail map. His stance was perplexing, too; he was crouched down like he was about to break into a sprint any second, with an arm bent to guard his scarf-covered mouth. His jagged staff was held behind him, traces of blue energy emitting from the point. He was quite a bulky gentleman, with armour blending in among his robes, the combination providing decent magical and melee protection.

Though Nomad was still technically a human, his obsession with souls and magic had corrupted him over the years, making him something more and, simultaneously, something less than a mere man.

Oddly, Jahaan found himself sympathising, if only somewhat. After the power Guthix had bestowed upon him, making him the World Guardian, Jahaan no longer felt like a mere mortal anymore. Perhaps it was narcissism? Perhaps it was naivety? Whatever it was, it was a feeling Jahaan couldn’t shift…

 

It wasn’t long before Zamorak graced the chamber with his presence, teleporting in just in front of the throne; the Mahjarrat only bowed their heads in respect, while the others took to their knees. Jahaan remained standing.

“Arise, my disciples of chaos,” Zamorak began, motioning for them to stand. He stepped forward from the throne and settled between Moia and Bilrach. “Good to see you all again. Now, I’ll get right to it. If you don’t already know, we’re going to steal the Stone of Jas from Sliske. I’m not playing his stupid games any longer - just like I taught you, we’re going to take what is ours through strength and chaos!”

The cheers were interrupted by Moia who declared, “My lord, apologies for the disruption, but Viggora has returned. I can sense him.”

Smirking, Zamorak replied, “Perfect timing. Khazard, I need you to enter the Shadow Realm and get Viggora.”

“As you command,” Khazard nodded, stepping forward to gain some ground. He concentrated hard, his eyes closed and fists clenching, but… nothing. Bafflement turned into panic as he failed once more to disappear into the shadows. Darting his eyes towards Hazeel, he exclaimed, “I can’t enter the Shadow Realm!”

Puzzled, Hazeel calmly stepped beside him and tried the same motions, but to no avail. Gravely, he turned to Zamorak and declared, “My lord, I fear Sliske has been meddling with our ability to enter the Shadow Realm. I had sensed something afoul. I believe he has corrupted the boundary. I do not know how this is possible, but it is the only explanation.”

Sighing, Zamorak said, “It’s okay. Only that bastard Zarosian is a better manipulator of the shadows than you two. The failure is not on your shoulders - it’s just another reason to strip his power away. Can you at least create a window into the Shadow realm so that we can see Viggora, even if you can’t enter yourself?”

“I’ll try, my lord,” Khazard responded. With a few motions of his hand, and a slight strain on his part, a large enough window into the darkened mists of the Shadow Realm was created and a figure emerged on the other side. He was bald, but sported a radical two-pronged beard and a bulky suit of steel armour, trimmed in black. There was also the small matter of him being translucent.

When he saw Zamorak, he knelt.  _ “WoOoooooOOoo.” _

Crinkling his brow, Jahaan looked around him in bafflement, wondering,  _ Did… did anyone else hear that? _

“So it’s true,” Zemouregal stepped forward, a slash of a grin on his face. “Viggora, I’d heard you lost your mind, doomed to wander the Shadow Realm for all eternity.”

Moia quickly realised that Jahaan did not speak ‘ghost’, and lacking a spare ghostspeak amulet that the other non-Mahjarrat had thought to bring with them, acted as his translator.

“Zamorak's return broke the curse that was laid upon me,” Viggora stated. “I may be confined to this realm, but my mind is my own, at last.”

Zamorak had warmth in his expression that Jahaan had only witnessed fleetingly before. “I think back to that night on which we marched upon Zaros. It was beyond living memory that this many of us stood together. Rise, Viggora. What information do you bring?”

“My search took me deep into the swamps of Morytania, to the Barrows where Sliske's undead servants rest. There I discovered his lair, my lord. A stones throw to the south.”

“More. What more did you find?”

“I passed deeper into the lair, past tricks and contraptions. It was at the heart that I found it.”

“The Stone is there?” Zamorak’s eyes grew hungry.

Viggora confirmed, “Yes, Legatus Maximus Zamorak. In a cavernous vault behind a bolstered door. In the Shadow Realm he hides it.”

“You’re one of my most exalted followers, Viggora,” Zamorak commended, “If I could give you back your life, I would.”

Bowing slightly, Viggora stated, “It is my duty. I am forever in your service.”

Enakhra asked, “What else can you tell us about the defences?”

“On your way to the vault you will find several rooms, trapped and guarded,” Viggora explained, “The door preventing entry to the vault will be particularly problematic - an intricate system of rune locks and trickery. Inside, I could see the Stone of Jas. That is all I know.”

Nodding to his ally, Zamorak said, “Thank you, Viggora. That will be all.”

“Good luck to you all. Through chaos, victory is in your hands.”

With that, Viggora disappeared, and Khazard let the window to the Shadow Realm drop, visibly relieved at being allowed to relax his hold.

Zemouregal stepped into the centre of the circle that had formed, barking, “Let us strike now! We have the Stone's location - we must storm Sliske's lair by force!”

“Predictable,” Enakhra muttered. “No, we must plan. This opportunity cannot be squandered.”

“Enakhra is right,” Zamorak agreed. “Sliske will be able to teleport the Stone away. He must not be alerted.”

Lord… something or other… added, “If I may speak, it would seem our best option is a stealthy approach.”

“Leave it to me,” Nomad boasted, “The guards will pose no threat. I'll be back with the Stone before sundown.”

“Ha! A likely story,” Zemouregal snapped back. “No, I’m best suited for this mission. Sliske won’t even know what-”

“Quiet!” Zamorak cut in abruptly. “You will ALL be needed for this mission. Here’s what’s gonna happen: the World Guardian is resistant to divine power, so if that smug bastard really has become a god, he can’t hurt Jahaan. Jerrod’s an agile guy, he can stealthily take out the guards in the outer chambers. Moia’s got a unique memory infiltrating ability; they won’t be able to defend against something like that. Daquarius, you’re a smart guy, you’ll be good at breaking the rune locks on the vault door. Enakhra and Nomad, your mastery of magic is going to be our tank power against whatever Sliske throws at you. Khazard, despite Sliske having handicapped your ability to enter the Shadow Realm, you can still open windows, which is damn important - that’s where he’s got the Stone, after all. Zemouregal, you’re a necromancer even more capable than Sliske, so show his undead hordes no mercy. And Bilrach, you’re gonna lead this group.”

“It would be my honour,” Bilrach bowed lowly, ignoring the side-eye Zemouregal was giving him.

“I will remain with Zamorak,” Hazeel stated. “In my weakened state, I will be more of a hindrance than a help. Once you reach the Stone, Khazard has a communication device that will be able to alert me, and I will inform Lord Zamorak who will be able to retrieve the Stone from the Shadow Realm.”

“But if Khazard can’t get into the Shadow Realm, what makes you think you’ll be able to?” Jahaan asked Zamorak.

However, the reply instead came from Zemouregal who barked, “You dare question our lord’s power?!”

Holding an easing hand out to Zemouregal, Zamorak broke into a sinister sneer and assured, “If we can’t get the Stone out ourselves, we’ll just have to  _ make _ Sliske get it out for us. You understand?”

Gulping, Jahaan did.

Bilrach added, “I must remind you all, do not underestimate Sliske. I have sensed his power growing rapidly for some time now. He seems to flit in and out of my reach. In and out of focus. He knows I can sense him. Curious, yes. The Shadow Realm, perhaps.”

Resting his hands on the hilts of his swords, Jahaan cautioned, “I've dealt with Sliske before. Despite his demeanour, he’s not to be taken lightly.”

“Wise words. Another reason why you were chosen,” Zamorak replied. “The snake has taken a vested interest in you. Though if everything goes to plan, the filthy Zarosian won’t have time to react.”

General Khazard hesitantly ventured, “What… what if the plan goes wrong?”

Zamorak’s confidence helped to assuage his doubts. “Then it will be chaos, and you will be in your element. Embrace it and realise your true potential. Now, move out. Head to Morytania and meet up at Sliske’s hideout. Let’s stick it to that daft bastard once and for all.”


	30. The Heist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 07: DISHONOUR AMONG THIEVES  
> Chapter 4 - The Heist
> 
> Due to his status as the World Guardian, Jahaan wound up as part of Zamorak’s heist team. Their task? Steal the Stone of Jas from Sliske and return its power to Zamorak. Jahaan gets to learn more about a god propaganda had always skewed, but will he be on board with Zamorak’s plan in the end...

Morytania. The cruelest and most unforgiving kingdom in all of Gielinor. Sure, you had the lawlessness of the Wilderness, but that was mere anarchy - bandits and small groups of various races and creeds carving out a little piece of something to call their own, no matter how corrupt it was. Morytania was organised chaos, apt as it was the only Zamorakian kingdom left in the world. Morytania was a land of darkness and evil, inhabited by various creatures secluded in the region, scarcely seen outside of the kingdom’s clouds. Such species include the vampyric race, werewolves, ghosts of unruly souls, ghasts and more. While some humans still remained, most of them were helpless under the tyranny of the vampyres.

 

During the Second Age, the northern and western areas of Morytania belonged to Zaros, while the southern parts belonged to Saradomin and were known as the ‘Hallowland’. Once Zaros was deposed by Zamorak, the new diety gave Lord Lowerniel Vergidiyad Drakan, a vampyre lord who followed Zamorak during the God Wars, permission to conquer Hallowland as a reward for his hand in the rebellion. It wasn’t long before Draken seized Hallowland for himself and renamed the city as ‘Meiyerditch’. The citizens were held in the city so that Drakan's vampyres could drink their blood as ‘tithes’. And so, Hallowvale turned into a blood-farming ghetto, the sky permanently darkened so that vampyres were no longer hampered by the sun. The death that Drakan brought destroyed the lands of Morytania. He turned fields into swamps, and any that died in their murky depths became undead known as ghasts. Lush forests were transformed into dead clusters of trees. Since its taking, Meiyerditch has been changed into an unrecognisable public squalor. The city is entirely isolated by massive walls on its north, east, and west side, and the south-eastern sea at its southern end effectively boxes the city in. To say that the conditions within Meiyerditch are terrible is an understatement. The city is overcrowded, with humans herded into small wooden apartments that have long since lost walls and roofs to the rot. Food is rare, and many are forced to eat rats to survive. Clothing and other basic necessities are also in short supply. All throughout the city, dying citizens can be seen huddled against walls and in the dark confines of alleys. The ghetto is divided into six sectors, each of which has a number of residents barricaded within. The inhabitants of these sectors pay forced blood tithes on a rotational basis, so as to prevent the large majority from dying of blood loss. Despite this ‘measure’, many citizens do not survive the tithes.

 

This is only a portion of the kingdom: Mort Myre Swamp lies in western Morytania, plagued by ghasts. It was once a beautiful forest by the name of Humblethorn, but was turned into a swampland once the evil denizens of Morytania descended. The Haunted Woods is a long-dead forest, the remnants of a once luscious and tranquil forest that spread across Morytania. However, when the vampyres arrived, the whole land began to decay and rot. Then there was Mort'ton, a village situated in Morytania, south of the Mort Myre Swamp. The town was once famed for its funeral pyres, though now it is populated by afflicted, strange zombie-like creatures that are the result of a disease which spread through the town some time in the Fifth Age, infecting the population. Nowadays, Mort'ton lies in ruins and, though the Sanguinesti Affliction is no longer contagious and does not present a threat to visitors, the afflicted citizens of the town still wander the streets, and derelict buildings and streets are prowled by shades of long-dead spirits, making the place even more hostile. Directly to the south was the ramshackle town known as ‘Burgh de Rott’ that served as the base for the Myreque rebels who fight to reclaim Morytania from the vampyres.

 

In the late Third Age, an army of Saradominist soldiers from Misthalin, led by six brothers - Ahrim, Dharok, Guthan, Karil, Torag and Verac - attempted to eradicate the evil creatures of Morytania. These commanders had been given extremely powerful sets of armour and weapons by a mysterious stranger, a follower of Zaros, and led their army with valour through the gloomy swamps of Morytania. Saradominist forces pressed from Paterdomus on the River Salve, all through Mort Myre Swamp, to the walls of Darkmeyer itself, the capital of the Sanguinesti region and the twin city of Meiyerditch. Darkmeyer was Drakan’s residence at the time. Here the brothers made a heroic but bloody and catastrophic stand against Drakan's forces, slaying many. However, as they did, the mysterious stranger that had blessed them before their campaign arrived and told them that they must die, and when they fought with Drakan once again, their powers were greatly diminished. They received horrific wounds and many of their soldiers were killed. The troops were forced to retreat back to their camp. The army tried to treat the brothers' injuries, but their wounds proved fatal, and they all succumbed to their injuries. The soldiers were distraught; they knew that without their commanders, their campaign would end in failure. So, pausing only to bury their dead generals in six barrows, they turned back and fled to their beloved Misthalin.

It was here the Barrows Brothers were laid to rest, but they did not rest in peace, becoming the property of their new master and serving as his undead soldiers.

A stone’s throw to the south of the Barrows’ graves was Sliske’s lair.

 

Without the aid of Moia’s teleportation, Jahaan doubt he would have made it on his own. At least, not for a year of so, and likely missing some limbs along the way. It seems as if everyone else had the same idea, arriving in flurries of magic one after the other.

When Jahaan landed, he instantly wretched, the sudden onslaught of decay and rot assaulting his senses, the smell unbearable. He’d landed in sodden mud that coated him up to the ankle, scrambling to free himself before he sunk any further.

_ Welcome to Morytania, _ he grumbled internally, shaking off a few flakes of mud which accidentally splattered onto the back of Zemouregal’s armour. Luckily he didn’t seem to notice.

The assembled group quietly trekked through a tiny portion of the swamp until they arrived at the entrance Viggora had described. Prising open the hatch, Bilrach climbed down first to scout out the area, waving the all-clear after a few moments of scanning. However, when they all made it down, their hearts collectively sank.

The tunnel was lit, torches protruding from the rocky walls, and on a plinth in front of them was a small handwritten note. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a poem, reading:

_ ‘A Poem for the Lost’ _

_ Think no more of the bright, blue skies above _

_ You can barely see five fingers raised in the dark _

_ The green grasses you ran through as a child are gone _

_ No longer surrounded on three sides by earth, wind and sea _

_ Does your red blood even flow or heart beat anymore? _

_ North, east, south and west are all the same _

_ Only light and dark combined can guide you now _

 

Using a small spark of fire magic, Moia burned the note, announcing what everyone was thinking, “He’s been waiting for us.”

Instantly, Zemouregal snapped around to Jahaan and cornered him against one of the walls, growling, “Did you say something to that snake,  _ World Guardian? _ ” he spat the title as if it were a curse. “You were so chummy with Sliske and his Zarosian pals at the Ritual, after all.”

Jahaan glowered up at Zemouregal, not letting the size difference put him off as he argued, “Hey, Sliske’s no friend of mine. Don’t you start throwing around bullshit claims you can’t back up, or we’re going to have a problem.”

Roaring a chilling laugh, Zemouregal smashed a fist into the rocks behind Jahaan’s head, breaking of chunks as he did so. “Is that a promise, or a threat?”

“Besides, Sliske can sense the Mahjarrat,” Jahaan defiantly countered, making a good show of not being fazed by the towering figure looming over him. “He probably tracked your movements!”

“We’ve been here for mere minutes,” Zemouregal snapped back. “How could he-”

“ENOUGH!” Enakhra shrieked, the flames in the torches flickering with cowardice as she did so. “It doesn’t matter how he knew - all that matters is that he  _ does _ . Zamorak’s plan of stealth is null and void now. We have to charge through and make sure we get to Sliske before he disappears with the Stone again.”

“Enakhra’s right,” Bilrach concurred. “Stealth would have been ideal, but we can’t waste anymore time. He’s waiting for us, that means he wants an encounter.”

“So we need to go,  _ now _ ,” Moia finished, leading the way down the tunnel. Her momentum didn’t last long before she was surrounded by cave openings on all sides, clueless as to where to go first. Above each one was a coloured paint stroke.

“Vich way?” Jerrod sniffed at the openings, trying and failing to catch a scent.

“Oh blast, does anyone remember the poem?” Lord Daquarius asked, realising, “I think Sliske left us clues on that note.”

Looking guilty, Moia didn’t answer. After cursing an unfamiliar word, Khazard snapped, “Useless halfbreed! We needed that!”

“Well how was I supposed to know!” Moia whirled around. “And don’t you DARE call me-”

“Blue skies!” Jahaan loudly cut in, silencing the quarrel. Once everyone was listening, he quietly repeated, “The poem mentioned blue skies. Look for something blue.”

In moments, the group had found the blue paint stroke above one of the doors and quickly proceeded into the next tunnel.

“Five fingers,” Jahaan stated the next clue he remembered, unsure as to how he could remember such a poorly written poem over the name of Lord-

_...fuck. Nevermind, the poem is more important. _

Pointing to a ‘V’ over one of the doors, Bilrach announced, “The Infernal symbol for five. This way.”

They continued on like this, making light work of the rest of the tunnel system until they reached one last corridor leading to a large expanse. Upon brief inspection, it was a crudely constructed maze with wight guards patrolling at every turn.

After peering out from their safe spot to survey the best route, Moia declared, “We’ll have to sneak past them. If we alert them to our presence, more might arrive.”

“We can handle whatever comes our way,” Khazard declared, drawing his mighty longsword, the blade glinting in the low torchlight.

His ears pricked to the never-ending footsteps of the marching wights, Bilrach countered, “We might get overrun. Who knows how many he can spawn? If we falter this early on, all this effort was for nothing.”

Nomad stepped forward. “Leave it to me - these wights are no match for my prowess. I’ll deliver the Stone to Zamorak with ease.”

Sliding in front of him, Zemouregal sneered, “Nice try, mage, but I wouldn’t trust you to deliver a letter. You’re not leaving my sight.”

“Oh, and you think you have the power to stop me?” Nomad challenged, jeeringly. “How droll.”

“When this is over, I’m going to deliver you to Death in parcels.”

“Gentleman, please!” Lord Daquarius interrupted, the vain in his forehead bulging. “This is getting old. Let us but aside our petty differences and take down these wights together. We must not fail Lord Zamorak.”

Wordlessly striding past Lord Daquarius with a self-righteous grin carved into his ashen face, Zemouregal summoned a bolt of smoke magic and blasted the closest wight to pieces before anyone could stop him. Instantly, five more rounded the corner, their green glowing eyes lighting up the end of the hall.

“There. No more debating. You’re welcome.”

From the sounds of the incoming footsteps, more wights were arriving.

Summoning fire to her palms, Enakhra growled, “Zemouregal? You’re an asshole.”

 

From the looks of the scenery Jahaan passed as he slashed through the horde of wights, Sliske had clearly devised some elaborate stealth-based mazed, complete with glowing masks to avoid, patrolling wights to assassinate, and levers to toggle certain doorways and passages.

The Zamorakians had botched all of that, charging through with the subtlety and grace of a fox in a hen house.

Fortunately, they didn’t get overrun by Sliske’s wights. In fact, the danger they presented was more to one another, accidentally tripping over each other’s robes in such a narrow corridor, or sending a spell that shot past an ally a little too close for comfort, or straight up just running into one another as they barged through the wights.

_ Yes, Zamorak would be pleased... _

 

When the group made it past the wight guards and into the next room, they weren’t thankful for what greeted them; a narrow bridge, crowding them all together once more, that approached a large set of doors. A basic representation of Sliske’s face was painted upon them.  _ Not egocentric at all… _

Embedded onto either side of the doors were two wooden masks; one, the picture of glee and mania. The other, morose and miserable. Enchanted, the pair of them - magical energy radiated from their carvings, and it allowed them the power of speech.

“Welcome, welcome! It’s so nice to have guests!” the joyous one cheered, the positivity positively sickening.

The dirgeful mask seemed to concur that his partner was annoyingly over the top, remarking, “Must you be so incessantly cheery all the time, Light?”

“Oh come now, Shadow, we hardly have visitors,” Light tried to reason, its joyful energy never wavering. It’s voice was an over-enthusiastic replica of Sliske’s own, with the dial turned up to eleven. “Besides, they’ve made it this far. They’ve come to play our little game! Won’t that be fun?”

“No. It won’t be,” Shadow grumbled. Like its mania-induced counterpart, this mask, too, spoke with Sliske’s accent and intonation. However, unlike its opposite - and indeed unlike Sliske himself - this mask’s voice sounded earnest, genuine, not a parody of emotion. “I suppose the sooner they leave, the sooner I can sleep and be rid of you. Fine, fine. Get on with it.”

The elation (and subsequent irritation) of Light managed to increase tenfold. “Fantastic! Now, this game is rather simple, once you get the hang of it. There’s shadow and light energy gauges on this here door, and two of you must keep them balanced at all times. Thing is, the energy beams are in the Shadow Realm, so a couple of you more skilled fellows will have to open up a window into it for the others to connect themselves to the streams. A few delicate wights are lurking around with knowledge of how to crack the door’s code, so stealing their memories will make unlocking the door a doddle. Ah, but there are a few troublesome souls waiting in the wings to overrun you all, so you best delegate a couple of agents to defend against them. Careful, too much light or shadow energy will cause a bit of an explosion, and I’m not quite sure any of you would survive, which would be such a shame.”

Shadow sighed with the world-weariness of a broken down furnace. “Just steal the memories of the wights, balance the energies, unlock the door, try not to die. You don’t need all that nonsense, Light. Just get to it.”

Light sighed himself this time, but his had the hint of a chuckle. “You really are no fun, are you old chap? Nevermind. It’s time for these fellows to get cracking! Best of luck, you chaotic little so-and-so’s!”

 

The team quickly got to work after the masks grew silent. Jerrod would sniff out an undead guard and bring him to Moia for his memories to be read. Meanwhile, Nomad and Enakhra kept the shadow and light energy streams balanced, respectively, as Bilrach and Khazard used their prowess with the Shadow Realm to keep windows into it open. Zemouregal fought to defend the room from the undead hoard that tried to break through. When the wights ended up encroaching from all angles, Jahaan and Lord Daquarius ended up fighting them off too.

 

Low moaning echoed from the wight Jahaan tangled with. Once it was dead for good this time, he called out, “How’s everyone doing?”

Looking around, he saw Enakhra and Nomad straining under the pressure of the energy beams, trying to keep them in balance.

“We need more light energy!” Nomad called out, and he would get a brief moment of respite to relax while Enakhra all but crumbled under the increased pressure.

Fighting under the weight, Enakhra shouted, “Moia, how much longer?”

With her hands on a prayer-like motion, Moia channeled her focus into the wight Jerrod had brought before her as it struggled under the werewolf’s grasp. “Soon. I have three of the four runic symbols required.”

This wasn’t reassuring enough for Enakhra who, unfortunately, crumbled under the weight of the beam, crying out as the energy engulfed her. Hearing this, Zemouregal shot around and charged towards Enakhra, throwing her out the way as he took the weight of the light beam himself. While Enakhra struggled to catch her breath, panting and choking from the pain, Zemouregal kept up his end of the beam long enough to rectify the damage his female Mahjarrat comrade had unintentionally inflicted upon the energy metre. Soon enough, it was Nomad’s turn to bear the pressure, but luckily, he managed it well. Still, this little switch-out had left Zemouregal's corner undefended. As there seemed to be less monsters coming into his section, Jahaan pulled double duty, running across the chamber to dispatch the conga-line of wights that had piled up in such a short amount of time. Eventually, Enakhra was recovered enough to defend against the wights, but she did not volunteer to retake the beam from Zemouregal. Naturally, she didn’t even say thank you.

“It’s done!” Moia exclaimed, backing away from the guard she was harvesting a memory from and sprinting over to the door, quickly inputting the combination. As soon as the last symbol was twisted towards, the assault of the undead hoards ceased, as did the light and shadow beams.

After a series of clinking metallic sounds from inside the door’s mechanism, it swung wide open.

Inside, straight ahead, a platform, built for the Stone of Jas.

But there was no Stone of that platform.

There was only Sliske.


	31. Wrath and Ruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 07: DISHONOUR AMONG THIEVES  
> Chapter 5 - Wrath and Ruin
> 
> Due to his status as the World Guardian, Jahaan wound up as part of Zamorak’s heist team. Their task? Steal the Stone of Jas from Sliske and return its power to Zamorak. Jahaan gets to learn more about a god propaganda had always skewed, but will he be on board with Zamorak’s plan in the end...

Moia’s eyes narrowed as she locked onto Sliske’s glittering yellow irises. “Sliske…”

With a dramatic flourish, Sliske flamboyantly gestured around him. “Welcome! How nice to finally have some visitors. Hope you like what I've done with the place. The statues are truly inspired artwork, I think. I recommend having a-”

“Enough of this prattle!” Zemouregal cut in, summoning smoke to his fingertips with malicious intent. “I say we eliminate this vermin before he has the chance to scurry away!”

Hopping backwards, Sliske held his palms outwards and said,  “Ah-ah-ah! How rude of me, I almost forgot to introduce you...”

Shivering slightly, Khazard took a tentative step backwards. “Bilrach... do you sense that?”

“Yes, Khazard, I sense it too,” Bilrach’s fists were clenched, his voice low and eyes darting around him. “Be on your guard.”

Sliske’s smile grew wicked now. “I think it's time for you to meet the other guests.”

From a cloud of smoke, Sliske revealed his latest creations: shadow replicas, clones of the present Zamorakians that nested comfortably in the uncanny valley. They wore the same armour as their counterparts, had the same weapons, but they still seemed…  _ off _ . Perhaps the sinister air surrounding them was just something that had brushed off from their creator.

“Nomad, meet Nomad!,” Sliske proudly introduced, watching the expressions of confusion and horror from the Zamorakians with twisted glee. “Daquarius, meet Daquarius! Jerrod- well, you get the picture.”

“So this is the result of your twisted experiments in the Shadow Realm,” Bilrach regarded the shadow apparition of himself without amusement.

“What have you done, Sliske?” Khazard demanded, his hand clenched around his sword hilt. The shadow figure of him mimicked the action. “Playing god like this is dangerous - even for you!”

Sliske sneered, “If I didn't know better, I'd say you were scared, Khazard.”

“No!” Khazard barked, too sharply, and it betrayed him. “Surely they are nothing but apparitions, constructs of shadow…”

“Indeed,” Nomad concurred, his resolve more certain. “A nice trick, but nothing more, conjurer.”

“Oh, but they are so much more! You will find them to be quite formidable opponents.”

Jahaan scanned the ranks once, then twice, and noticed an absence. His tone was slightly wary as he inquired, “So where's my one?”

The smirk Sliske gave him made Jahaan wish he had never asked. “Such impatience! Just you wait, I still have an ace up my sleeve for you...”

“We have heard enough of your empty words,” Moia summoned a ball of flames to her palms. “Disciples of chaos, ready yourselves!”

With that, the Zamorakians drew their weapons and readied their spells; their opposites did the same.

Unsurprisingly, Zemouregal was the one to make the first move, blasting Nomad’s double with a bolt of shadow magic. “Ha! Been waiting to do that for a long time.”

Taking it personally, Nomad squared off with Zemouregal’s clone, while the others paired off with their counterparts in a flurry of combat.

Jahaan was about to get stuck into the action too when he felt a force tug him backwards. From the instant chill, he realised he’d been dragged into the Shadow Realm again, the dark tinge his vision he’d acquired confirming this.

He wasn’t alone. This he knew. He could sense a presence. Nay, multiple presences. Those not quite living, not quite dead. These weren’t Sliske, but he was here too, his looming spirit omniscient.

Right in the centre of the room, a platform, holding the Stone of Jas atop it.

Sliske's voice echoed around the cavernous vault.  _ “Welcome to the carnival, Jahaan! It’s been too long, my dear. Now, it’s time for the main act to begin...” _

Suddenly, a figure materialised and charged at him, holding two blades akin to his own. Instinctively, Jahaan swung for the apparition, only for it to disappear in a cloud of smoke. Confused, Jahaan held the grip of his swords steady, shuffling backwards. 

It was a whisper of a sound, a ghost of a noise, but there was someone behind him. Slashing around in the area his ears had tweaked, his blades greeted nothing.

Just as he was about to grumble out his frustrations, another figure appeared at his six o’clock. Jahaan rolled out of the way of the crushing sword blow, whipping around with his two blades, expecting not to meet the attacker. But this time, he did. His swords clashed with two blades, similar to his own, but radiating smoke. The opponent holding them was himself. Or, rather, a slightly more contorted version of himself. Pupilless eyes, slightly crooked limbs, like a puppet being held on a loose string. The likeness was revolting, for Jahaan felt like he was looking into the zombified version of himself, entranced and helpless to Sliske’s command.

It also had a hauntingly familiar smile carved into its overly pale face.

_ “Do you like him?” _ Sliske’s voice was laced with a malicious chuckle.  _ “It’s such a shame you scarred that pretty face of yours, you know. Such a waste.” _

Despite being faced with… himself… Jahaan found that he was on the defensive more often than not, and that every strike he made was countered perfectly. Knowing he was fighting an uphill battle, Jahaan said to himself,  _ This is just a game to Sliske, like everything is. I’ve gotta focus on getting the Stone back into the material realm... _

As he sparred, Jahaan edged backwards, closer and closer to the Stone. A blade swung for his neck, but Jahaan ducked in time, managing to use one of his blades to swipe at his opponents shins. Despite being a shadow construct, the counterpart took the hit like he was flesh and blood, and Jahaan capitalised with a slash across the chest with his other blade, only cringing ever so slightly at the sight of causing ‘himself’ such agony.

Not wasting a second, Jahaan dashed up to the Stone’s plinth, finally taking in the awe-inspiring power radiating from the immense artefact up close. It caused his skin to crawl as he felt the energy creep underneath his flesh and into his veins.

Despite guessing that it would be foolish to reach out and touch the godly weapon, Jahaan decided to reach out and touch the godly weapon.

 

Upon touching the Stone, Jahaan’s mind was cast back through time to witness a memory that was imprinted on the Stone of Jas many years ago, far back towards the end of the Third Age, and to a land once known as Forinthry…

 

The battlefield was solemn, a haunting wind crying out through the desolate grey sky. Mere minutes beforehand, the place was ablaze with the clashing of swords, the screams of battle, and the rattle of magic. Now, it was eerily quiet, save for the low groaning of the wounded and the unstable pulsing of energy emitting from the Stone of Jas.

Panting, Zamorak was huddled over on the ground, a hand defiantly (albeit desperately) sealed onto the Stone’s surface.

When he blinked through the grit in his eyes, he saw three figures looming over him, though keeping a comfortable distance.

Saradomin, Armadyl and Bandos, side by side.

“You are defeated, Zamorak,” Saradomin announced, barely keeping the smugness from his tone. “Give up the Stone.”

“Never,” Zamorak spat, unsurprised when blood spilt from his lips. “You betrayed me, you bastard! You threw away our alliance the moment your knife could find my back!”

With his words, the Stone’s surface quivered and cracked, energy pounding through it with more vehermence than ever before.

Seeing this, Armadyl pleaded with heavy eyes, “Please, Zamorak. Look at the Stone. Your desperation is causing it to become unstable!”

“Stop squawking, bird,” Bandos grunted, tightening his grip on his large warhammer. “Bandos has destroyed red man’s armies. Now, Bandos finish red man too!”

“There’s a peaceful way out of this for all of us, you barbarian,” Armadyl maintained, softening his tone when he returned his focus to Zamorak. “Please, Zamorak. It does not have to end like this...”

Saradomin’s eyes were on fire, burning holes through Zamorak’s skull. “You cannot reason with this mad dog, Armadyl. He and his forces are devoted to evil above all else.”

“Lies!” Zamorak rebuked, forcefully. “You do not understand… you have never even wanted to fucking TRY and understand! I have risen to power through my own strength and will, and that is how ALL can thrive! You… you little bitch, you’re wretched and weak, just like your pathetic excuse for an ideology. Order leads to stagnation, but chaos leads to innovation, empowerment, FREEDOM!”

Now, the Stone’s pulsing began to cause rifts in the world, quaking the earth surrounding them all, but Zamorak didn’t even seem to notice. Armadyl’s resolve, on the other hand, was about as unsteady as the ground beneath him. He looked over his shoulder to the aviansie army behind him, the fearsome warriors that had followed him from their home world on Abbinah in hopes of finding peace on Gielinor. He had lost a fair few good soldiers in the battle preceding this standoff, and he would weep for them all. However, many were still alive, and thus one thing was repeating inside his mind, clawing fiercely to escape.

“Zamorak, I beg of you - the Stone!” he implored with increased urgency. “You know not what you are doing. You could annihilate Forinthry and all innocent life within!”

“Do you see now?” Saradomin swept a grand gesture behind him. “This is what you truly stand for - the destruction of life. You are nothing but a villain.”

Coughing, Zamorak ignored the blue deities remarks and turned to the others. “Armadyl... Bandos... hear me. Everything I've done was for Gielinor. I seek only to raise up the people of this world.”

But Bandos just laughed. “Ha! The mighty Zamorak, begging on his knees. Pathetic.”

There was a glint in Armadyl’s eyes, however, that indicated he might be reasoned with. “Saradomin, does he speak the truth?”

Quickly, Saradomin dispelled this idea, eager to keep his allies on his side. “Lies, all of it. He is trying to manipulate you. We each allied to bring this wretched criminal to justice. The Stone is rightfully mine!”

This didn’t sit well with Bandos. “Yours? Looks like fair game to Bandos, old man.”

Latching onto this, Zamorak growled, “Saradomin, you only want to rule and control this world with your power, the same as Zaros before you. Stagnation and weakness is all that comes of it.”

“And you believe chaos to be the answer?” Saradomin rebuked. “Would you have this planet ravaged by a never-ending war?!”

“Conflict would be inevitable, yes, but the people of the world would be  _ free _ . Free to fall and grow, to fail and rebuild-”

“MADNESS!” Saradomin cut in, and by the looks on Armadyl’s on Bandos’ faces, Zamorak knew he had lost them all. Nevertheless, he persisted, “Surely you can see the value of my words, Bandos?”

“They are just words,” Bandos snarled. “Powerless and empty. In another time we might have seen eye-to-eye. You might have been allowed to fight for Bandos.”

Lastly, desperately, he turned to Armadyl. “Armadyl? Come on…”

His eyes wavered, and he looked away from the downed deity. In a regretful tone, Armadyl said, “I am sorry, Zamorak. I cannot allow chaos to engulf this world.”

Sneering with victory, Saradomin declared, “The time has come for you to meet your end, usurper.”

“NO! You are all blind!” Zamorak’s rage began to get the better of him, and the Stone crackled and pulsed in time with his temper, shaking the ground beneath as it started to glow brighter. “None of you are deserving of this power. None of you! If I must meet my end, THEN EACH OF YOU WILL MEET YOURS!”

 

Jahaan could no longer hear anything, and his vision began to get blurry. Armadyl reached out a hand, Bandos charged forwards, Saradomin raised his Staff, and Zamorak rose to his feet with the power of the elder gods infused into his heart. The world burst into light, and then receded just as quickly into darkness.

When Jahaan opened his eyes, he realised that he and the Stone were back in the material realm. He was still attached to the Stone, and it required some fighting to break free from it. Once he did, he noticed how his entire body was tingling, similarly to how he felt with Zaros inside of him. This time though, the power was much stronger, dizzyingly so. He felt unstable, but at the same time, he felt  _ immortal _ .

Clenching his fist, he noted how energy was literally sparking from his knuckles. It was intoxicating, and it made him want to  _ fight _ . The nearest conduit for his adrenaline was the shadow copy of Enakhra; Jahaan didn't even draw his swords as he knew he had the power flowing inside him to channel a magic spell. What spell, though, he wasn’t sure - he had no runes, and Zaros only acted as a substitute for the ancient magicks.

Soon enough, he realised this little conundrum wasn’t going to be an issue as he shot a bolt of pure elder energy out of his palms, so powerful that the Enakhra shadow dissipated upon contact.

Startled, Enakhra spun around to see who had stolen her kill. Grey eyes sparkled with shock horror when they met Jahaan’s green ones, seeing the fire dancing inside them and the magic wrapping around his palm.

However, Jahaan realised that the attack had used up a lot of the power he’d taken from the Stone. Knowing the magic was fleeting, he thought to pick his next target more wisely. Zemouregal's shadow was long since dead, as was Nomad’s and Khazard’s. The aforementioned had spread themselves around to take out the remaining shadow’s of their comrades. Only Lord Daquarius fought alone, sparring with a mirror image of himself. Jahaan sprinted over, gathering the magic to his fingertips, but a lighter blast this time - overkill was not necessary. The amount definitely proved to be effective as Lord Daquarius’ shadow went down without a second thought.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bulky figure running towards the Stone. Clearly he wasn’t the only one to see it as a female voice called out, “Nomad, stop!”

Instinctively, Jahaan whipped around and fired a bolt of energy towards the charging Nomad. It caught his back and shoved him forwards, onto his knees.

“You dare stop me from realising my destiny?!” he bellowed, picking himself up and changing the grip on his spear so it was as if he was holding a javelin. “Only I am worthy of the Stone's power! Foolish human. I should have finished you long ago!”

Swiftly dodging to the side, Jahaan missed the spear’s deadly tip by a literal hair’s length - he felt it cut through his dreadlocks - and retaliated by slipping his dagger from the sheath at his back and launching it towards Nomad, slicing into the soul mage’s fingers.

Roaring in pain, Nomad clutched his left hand, watching helplessly as blood poured from where his index finger used to be. It’d been sliced clean off from just above the top joint, and his middle finger had also lost the tip. Seeing he was outnumbered and losing blood fast, Nomad caved and teleported away, a harsh curse thrown in Jahaan’s direction for good measure.

Once he left, another figure emerged, fading in under the glow of fire and shadow.

Zamorak had arrived.

He wordlessly nodded to his followers, then to Jahaan, before turning his attention to the Stone. Eyes full of hunger, he strode up, examining the glowing and crackling specimen for only a fleeting moment before he placed a grey claw upon its surface. Reeling back, Zamorak began to shake, his body convulsing as energy surged through his veins.

It was at that moment Sliske revealed himself once more. All the Zamorakians were so focused on the spectacle of Zamorak absorbing the Stone’s power that they didn’t notice the snake’s arrival, but Jahaan did. He didn’t have time to act, or even call out, before Sliske began to move, disappearing back into the shadows. His movements were quick, his appearances fleeting; he appeared in front Khazard first, thrust a palm into the Mahjarrat’s stomach and chest, and then vanished once more before reappearing in front of a new target. Whoever he touched was left paralysed, limbs frozen and stiff as a flurry of shadows engulfed them. Jahaan, however, had been spared, and could only watch in amazement and horror as Sliske effortlessly worked his way through the Zamorakians.

By the time Zamorak noticed, all his followers were incapacitated. Growling, Zamorak removed his hand from the Stone, staring daggers through Sliske when he manifested opposite him. The fury in the deity’s eyes could burn castles to the ground, yet Sliske seemed unphased, or at least that’s the facade he wore.

“So, the serpent finally rears its ugly head,” Zamorak spat, his fists clenched into tight balls as the elder energy flowed between his fingers.

“Ah, good ol' Zammy,” Sliske cheered in response. His smile dripped from his lips like acid. “It’s nice to see you again too.”

“Release my followers or you will leave here in a FUCKING BUCKET.”

Tutting, Sliske’s smile grew into a wicked grin. “Careful, I could disappear into the shadows with the Stone faster than you could say 'Saradomin'.”

Zamorak stance was proud, solid, immovable. “You better watch that tone of yours," he threatened with a hiss. "I'll rip your tongue out with my bare hands for all the shit it's caused."

Sliske’s stance, on the other hand, was hunched, casual, his hands wringing together incessantly. “Oh, come now, we have so much in common! There was a time when we stood side by side, many lifetimes ago.”

“We’re nothing alike,  _ Blasckum _ .”

At this, Sliske roared with laughter. “Such colourful language! Do be careful - there are humans present, after all. And to use such harsh words against one of your brothers!”

“We’re not brothers anymore,” Zamorak maintained, his voice cold and chilling.

“Oh but we were!” Sliske maintained, his voice cheery but his eyes emotionless. “Back in the good old days of the Zarosian Empire. Did we not work together then, Legatus? Until you stabbed Zaros in the back, that is.”

Sliske leaned in a little closer, his voice lower and more calculating as he revealed, “Tell me, Zammy - do you really think that the Praefectus Praetorio was unaware of your plot against the Empty Lord?”

Zamorak paused, hesitant, carefully trying to read Sliske. “...bullshit.”

This elicited a grin from Sliske. “Why would I lie about this? The old society was oh so boring. Everyone being watched, afraid to put a foot out of line. Your development of this 'chaos' ideology was a breath of fresh air. Honourable intentions certainly, but it was the results that had me intrigued.”

“Chaos is not a game where you can pull the strings,” Zamorak asserted. “Only an arrogant Zarosian would believe they could play puppet master.”

“Yes, I suppose that is where we differ,” Sliske sighed. “But ask yourself, do the motivations really matter when the goal is the same?”

“You're no ally of mine, you damn snake. Fuck off back to the shadows where you came from. The Stone belongs to me now.”

Erupting with cackling laughter, Sliske countered, “Ally? Oh Zammy dear, I fear I have misled you. You know better than to think me so… unambitious. You may have reached the Stone, yes. It was truly amusing to watch your minions play my games. But to believe it is in your possession? Well…”

“I’ve already drawn power from it, regardless of your empty words,” Zamorak replied. “Even now my energy increases. It’s about time I finally shut you up for good.”

“Ah yes, you can feel the energy coursing through your veins. You are addicted, just like Saradomin is, just like Lucien was,” Sliske raised his eyebrows, his tone lighter as he finished, “And now I am too.”

Crinkling his brow, Jahaan had been silent thus far, watching the events unfold with baited breath, but finally he piped up, “What do you mean ‘addicted’?”

Sliske turned slightly towards Jahaan, keeping one beady yellow iris on Zamorak at all times. “Can't you see? Everyone who has ever touched the Stone has sacrificed everything in order to keep it in their grasp. The energy withheld in the Stone is not from this world, and the feeling of absorbing it is incomparable. I am not so clouded by pride that I would deceive myself.”

“You speak only of your own addiction,” Zamorak declared, “The Stone is nothing but a tool, a necessity if I am to free this world from the other gods.”

“Fool yourself all you like, Zamorak,” Sliske’s wicked, all-knowing smirk was back. “I know the truth.”

Considering this, Jahaan evaluated the feeling he had when he touched the Stone, and easily could see how one would become addicted to such an immense feeling of power. Then again, he already felt the power depleting oh-so quickly, and with it, his lust for the Stone did not remain. Hesitantly, he asked, “What about me? I touched the Stone after all.”

“Hmm… It would seem being the World Guardian is a double-edged sword,” Sliske replied. “You may not be harmed by the gods, but you are also unable to absorb divine energy. Good old Guthix gave you a blessing - and a curse. You do seem to be quite handy at channeling the Stone's power temporarily, though. Addiction may not be your downfall, no, but power so often corrupts the heart and mind.”

“Enough of this chatter,” Zamorak hissed, a small storm brewing around his palms. “You’re done here, Sliske. And I mean for good.”

Finally, Sliske’s calm demeanour dropped, and he looked slightly worried now. Jahaan could have sworn he saw the Mahjarrat gulp. From the corner of his eyes, Sliske locked his glare onto Jahaan, his tone absent of all joviality as he stated, “Jahaan, I have afforded you the opportunity to influence history. Choose wisely.”

The gravity of Sliske’s words sunk in instantly. He saw Zamorak begin to channel a spell, and Sliske just standing there, waiting, somewhat nervously.  _ Why isn’t he moving?! Why isn’t he trying to defend himself?! _

It was like the world was moving in slow motion, like everything was underwater.

Jahaan thought the choice was obvious. He had some of the Stone’s energy inside him still, and if he helped channel a spell at Sliske alongside Zamorak, then perhaps it would mean an end to all his games, his charades, his war and insanity. The shadow that had loomed over Jahaan’s life for so long would be gone, and he’d be free from the wretched puppeteer.

But as quickly as those thoughts crossed his mind, so did their counterparts.  _ Should Zamorak really have the Stone? And it wouldn’t just be him having that power, it’d be all his followers. Zemouregal, Khazard and Enakhra… all of them would have even more power and influence over this world. One of them would be bound to follow in Lucien’s power-hungry footsteps. And I’d also be making enemies of Azzanadra, Wahisietel and Zaros… ah, FUCK. _

Not allowing himself to think twice, Jahaan fought back his hesitation and channelled all the remaining power within him.

Just as Zamorak was about to strike, Jahaan cut in, hurling elder energy into the deity’s chest. It winded him, but didn’t have a lasting effect. Confused, Zamorak’s betrayed and fiery glare settled upon Jahaan, and he readied a retaliatory strike. Edging backwards, Jahaan suddenly regretted all of his life choices. Luckily, before Zamorak could strike, he was yanked into the Shadow Realm and teleported away.

When Jahaan opened his eyes, he recognised the blurry outline of the Empyrean Citadel wavering around him, cloaked in shadow and mist. The Stone, too, was beside him. As he caught his breath and tried to still his rapid heartbeat, Sliske’s laughter echoed around him. 

“Good show, Janny! You really did leave it until the most dramatic moment to upstage poor old Zammy. Needed a little help from yours truly, of course, but impressive nonetheless.”

Jahaan looked up and into the smirking, smug face of Sliske, and again regretted his life choices. “I didn’t do it for you. I didn’t want the Zamorakians having the Stone. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.”

“Ignoring that hurtful remark,” Sliske grinned. “I must know - what did Zammy offer you to become his lackey, hm?”

Too tired to think of a suitable rebuttal, Jahaan just sighed, taking a seat on one of the statue plinths. His eyes wandered about the Citadel. “He didn’t offer me anything. I liked his ideology; it makes a lot of sense, it’s practical... I didn’t mind going along for the ride, for a while. But I guess I can strike Zamorak off my Wintumber Festival card list…”

“Ah yes, Zamorak will certainly regret bringing you along,” Sliske smiled wryly. “Now, I have much to do, and as much as I enjoy your company, I think it’s time we parted ways. Do enjoy the scenery up here, though. I often admire the sunrise from such a view.”

Sliske placed a gloved palm atop Jahaan’s shoulder as he said, “Until the next time, darling…”

Within a blink, Jahaan was back in the material realm. It took his eyes a minute to adjust to the blinding sunlight that was pouring into the Empyrean Citadel.

Peering over the edge into the clouds below, Jahaan rolled his eyes.  _ Fantastic. Couldn’t have transported me anywhere more convenient, Sliske? _

Luckily, he remembered the invitation box he’d kept after Sliske’s ascendency ceremony and hurriedly removed it from his backpack. With a deep exhale, he readied himself, opened the box, and was whisked away to the forest north of Ardougne.


	32. Everlasting Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 08: MARK OF ZEMOUREGAL  
> Chapter 1 - Everlasting Fire
> 
> Because of Jahaan’s betrayal of Zamorak during their heist of the Stone of Jas, Zemouregal takes the matter of revenge into his own hands. When Jahaan looks to get even, he enlists the help of his Mahjarrat allies to take the fight to Zemouregal…

Jahaan trudged for a while before he reached civilisation again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to risk Ardougne, not just because of what happened last time, but a few Zamorakian Mahjarrat had their strongholds nearby, and considering his role in the heist, he figured he wasn’t the most popular man alive right now. He also had to avoid the Legends’ Guild because, well, reasons. So, accepting that the people he’d probably pissed off the least were the Guthixians, Jahaan made for Seers’ Village, deciding to stay there for the foreseeable future. Acquiring some papyrus and a quill pen, the first thing Jahaan did after placing his order at the town’s largest tavern was to write to Ozan, telling him in brief the events that had unfolded, and asked if he was near enough to Seers’ Village to stop by for the tale in full, along with a hearty meal. Once Postie Pete came around the next morning, Jahaan made polite conversation with the decapitated skull pulling along a parcel sack on wheels. Postie Pete had seen and done it all, and if you could catch him for long enough, he was a delight to chat to.

However, he never explained the story behind just how he became Gielinor’s resident postman with nothing more than a skull and cart to his name. But hey, he got the job done. In fact, the very next morning Jahaan received a reply from Ozan, saying he was just leaving Catherby and would stop by in a few days on his way to the Fremennik Province.

During the days in between, Jahaan bumbled about the town, looking in all the quaint little shops and taking a somewhat tourist-y trip up to Camelot Castle, feeling rather embarrassed with himself after gleefully grinning like an idiot when he saw Sir Bedivere walking across the courtyard.

When Ozan arrived, Jahaan regailed him with tales of the heist of the Stone of Jas, enrapturing him and the entirety of the local tavern at the same time. Taking a leaf out of Ozan’s book, he used his storytelling ability to keep their plates and cups full to the brim for days on end.

He didn’t notice the one man in the back, listening on with concerned surprise, before making a subtle exit.

The next day, he was still so overjoyed with retelling his story to the new patrons, and even the old ones who came back to hear wild stories of Mahjarrat and Zamorakian fortresses, that he didn’t even notice the headlines in the Seers Weekly publication that talked of an assassination in Falador park, details to come after the investigation is completed, with no suspects at present.

No, Jahaan was quite enjoying his time in Seers’ Village with his best friend at his side.

But all good things…

 

Jahaan had slept soundly in that rather comfy bed every night he’d been there. This night, however, he was oddly awoken by a weird sensation - that of moisture around his hand. Groggily, he opened his eyes, ready to figure out how his beer had gotten onto the pillow.

Staring back at him were eyes, bloodshot and lifeless, inside a head with skin as white as the sheets had once been. The face was old and shrivelled, wrinkled before all the life had been sucked from it. Jahaan shot upwards, scrambling backwards until his hand landed upon something solid, yet squishy. Warm, yet deathly cold.

Lit up by the pale light of the moon, his eyes landed upon them.

Two decapitated heads.

He recognised them both, despite the warped contortions death had brought to their features. He wished he didn’t recognise them, but oh gods he did…

Sir Tiffy Cashien and Thaerisk Cephire.

Panting heavily, desperately fighting back the urge to vomit, Jahaan’s shaky hand made for the dagger that was usually on his bedside table, but it was gone.

“Looking for this?” a voice rose from the shadows, full of teeth and menace, holding a runite dagger. Jahaan was too terrified to move, completely frozen in place between the severed skulls around him.

The figure moved into the light from the moon, an incredibly tall and bulky figure with ashen skin, covered in a combination of armour and robes.

“Zemouregal,” Jahaan had wanted to sound a lot more fearsome than he did, but it came out more like a stutter.

“In person,” he snarled, twirling the small blade around his fingers.

Jahaan’s eyes darted to where his armour and swords were piled up in the corner, closer to him than Zemouregal was, but that little look betrayed him, and when he went to move, he found himself ensnared in pulsing black and purple binds. Hissing in the pain they inflicted, tightening his arms to his sides, Jahaan was rendered immobile by the simple spell.

“Do you like the gifts I brought you?” Zemouregal sauntered closer to the edge of the bed, malice layered inside his smugness. “I put a lot of thought into them.”

Jahaan’s eyes burned through Zemouregal like fire.

Fire, like…

_ What a second, what’s that smell?  _

Jahaan’s nose started to twinge at the foreign, invading odour seeping into the room, pungent and clogging. Once it finally reached his throat, it scraped downwards, drying his throat out instantly.

Panicked eyes darted back at Zemouregal; he struggled in his binds.

Laughing maliciously, Zemouregal snapped Jahaan back to unwavering attention by throwing the knife into the headboard beside him, splitting the wood on impact, only an inch from his ear.

“I’d say it’s not worth fighting, but by all means, continue. It’s fun to watch you squirm,” Zemouregal’s dry lips cracked into a sneer. “After all, I won’t get to enjoy your suffering for that much longer. It’ll be sweet while it lasts.”

“What the fuck is your trauma?!” Jahaan bellowed, sweating already from the intense heat. To himself, he racked his brain, wondering,  _ How the hell had this not woken me up before? _

“You really have to ask?” Zemouregal spat in return. “Did you really think betraying Zamorak would go unpunished?”

“Please, if this was Zamorak’s doing, he’d want to kill me himself! This is all YOU, isn’t it?”

His grin widening, Zemouregal replied, “You’re a sharp one. Your insolence has rather started to grate on me. I’ll be doing Zamorak a favour by ridding the world of you.”

Struggling once more, Jahaan knew there was no escaping this hold, not while Zemouregal was in the vicinity. Desperate, Jahaan tried a new approach. “So what, you’re not even going to finish me yourself? Too scared I’ll beat you -  _ again _ ?”

From the flash in Zemouregal’s eyes, it looked as if Jahaan had succeeded in striking a nerve.  _ If I just get him to release me, to fight me, I might stand a chance _

However, once Zemouregal’s malevolent smile returned, Jahaan knew his approach had failed. “Nice try, but a quick death just isn’t as much fun. So as every fibre of your skin is being melted away, slowly and agonisingly, know this - this is of your own doing, World Guardian. The deaths of the knight and the druid are on you. The death of your close friend, the dark skinned one you entered with, is on you. He’s still here, by the way. My spy managed to slip something even stronger onto his beverage, double the dose of yours. It would have knocked him out for the night, but he’ll wake up once the flames reach him. Now you’ll be able to hear his screams as he  _ burns _ .”

The crackling of the flames was now much louder, thumping in time to Jahaan’s heartbeat. Hearing the impending inferno beating against the door, Zemouregal looked satisfied. “I guess this is goodbye, World Guardian.”

With that, he was gone.

Jahaan assumed the restraints would vanish alongside Zemouregal, but their hold remained, cutting into his sweating flesh like wires. Writhing and twisting with all his strength, Jahaan tried to wriggle free, to break the binds, to escape… but it wasn’t to be.

The heat was unbearable; the fire had yet to break through the door, though it was only a matter of time.

He had no runes to teleport out of the binds, and no weapon that would cut through them.

Jahaan didn’t want to resign himself to the fact that this was going to be his end, that he was going to die screaming, helpless, and by Zemouregal’s hand.

_ By Guthix, Tumeken, Saradomin, Zamorak, Seren, Zaros - SOMEONE help me! _ Jahaan internally pleaded, knowing that if any time was the right time to start praying, it was now. Then, like a lightning bolt, it struck him - prayers! Not in the conventional praying to a deity sense, but  _ curses _ . Zarosian curses, to be specific. Jahaan’s bedtime reading since the Mahjarrat Ritual had included Infernal language books, Senntisten history tomes, and texts about the Zarosian religion. The latter talked about curses, a Zarosian practice that were a hybrid of conventional spells and combative prayers, things that warpriests were mainly skilled in. They didn’t require runes, and they could be performed by anyone against an enemy of Zaros.

Considering Zemouregal was Zamorakian, Jahaan figured he stood a chance.

Trying to reduce his panicking, Jahaan worked to calm his breathing and clear his mind, focusing on remembering how to chant went.

_ “A gentes cervarum's non habere, Zaros liberabo te fidelis…”  _ Jahaan mumbled to himself, growing in fervor as his urgency rose,  _ “A gentes cervarum's non habere, Zaros liberabo te fidelis!” _

_ Come on Zaros, I know I’m not a Zarosian but you fucking owe me one! _ He internally added, sweat dripping from his brow as he continued aloud,  _ “A gentes cervarum's non habere, Zaros liberabo te fidelis! A gentes cervarum's non habere, Zaros liberabo te fidelis! A GENTES CERVARUM'S NON HABERE, ZAROS LIBERABO TE FIDELIS!” _

Suddenly, miraculously, the binds shattered. Panting in unbelievably relief, Jahaan wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes, shaking violently. Gasping in a lungful of thick, smoky air, he scrambled to his feet, unfortunately unable to forget that he was covered in the blood of his friends. Desperately, he tried to fight past it, snatching the dagger out of the headboard and scooping up his bag on the way to the door. The handle, conductive to heat, was beyond scalding to the touch. Fortunately, the door was weak from the battering of flames, and Jahaan broke through by throwing his shoulder against the less-than-sturdy oak. Pulling his shirt over his nose and mouth, Jahaan managed to at least somewhat protect himself from the escaping cloud.

Once he opened his eyes and tried to readjust to the imparied vision, he saw the extent of Zemouregal’s damage.

It looked as if the world was on fire.

Jahaan watched the deep flames of the enraged inferno through blurry eyes.

_ What of the other residents?  _ he allowed himself a fleeting thought, one that sunk his soul. He hoped - no,  _ prayed  _ \- that they had all escaped.  _ Perhaps they had gotten more of a warning? Perhaps they could escape through their windows? _

Shaking his head clear, Jahaan tried to focus, not wanting to dwell on the horror for too long as he made his way to Ozan’s room at the end of the hall. Jahaan tried to call out his name, but the ensuing inhalation of smoke caused him to collapse to his knees, a coughing and spluttering mess.

Like his own door, this one was weak too, and he managed to kick his way through.

Inside, every wall was crawling with a furious red heat, scalding with flames. Thick smoke engulfed every ounce of sweet air and replaced it with a heavy, suffocating blanket of pungent smog.

And in the centre of it all, Ozan.

He looked so helpless, laid out on the bed. So peaceful, the only still thing inside this inferno.

_ Deathly still, _ Jahaan’s mind stabbed at him,  _ Why hasn’t he woken up? Has the smoke...  _

He refused to let the thought overcome him, refused to let it be true. Stepping over the smouldering remains of the bookcase, Jahaan tried to fight past the violent heat and towards his friend. He could barely see anything past the flickers of orange among a sea of grey and black, but once he’d set his eyes on the murky outline of Ozan, he refused to let them waver.

Tingling heat pricked at his bare skin like daggers, relentlessly. The temperature was unbearable, but he pushed forward, driven by adrenaline alone, careful to keep to the centre of the floor and away from the scorching orange embers on the walls.

The bed was quickly growing in flames, and they’d started crawling across Ozan’s clothes, charring the skin underneath.

A loud crash came from behind them; darting around, Jahaan looked on in horror as the southern wall - where the door was - had started to cave in, and the floor was looking like it was the next in line to go.

That only left the window, but it was a straight drop down three stories onto concrete pavement. While Jahaan might, MIGHT survive the fall, in his condition, Ozan would not.

Seeds of helplessness started to sow themselves, nurtured by desperation.

_ Why don’t I carry runes? _ Jahaan internally whimpered, regretting his near-hatred of magic for all these years.  _ If I could just teleport out, I could- _

Suddenly, it hit him. Quickly, he removed his backpack and scrambled through it until he pulled out the tiny invitation box he’d acquired all that time ago. Not wasting another second, Jahaan firmly grabbed onto Ozan’s arm and, with his free hand, pried open the lid of the box, feeling them both get whisked away...

 

Jahaan and Ozan collapsed onto the relievingly cold marble of the Empyrean Citadel chamber, the former coughing up a lung in the process. Wiping the soot from around his eyes, he hurried to toss his backpack aside and check on Ozan, who still hadn’t regained consciousness.

Putting his ear close to his mouth, he tried to listen for any signs of life, but there weren’t any. Shaking him didn’t help, nor did shouting his name. Luckily, Jahaan remembered the resuscitation training he’d received in the Imperial Guard, and set to work on chest compressions, counting back from thirty. This was followed swiftly by rescue breaths, two short and sharp exhalations into Ozan’s mouth. He repeated this process a handful more times until finally, mercifully, Ozan spluttered to life with a series of coughs.

Letting out the most tensed, shakiest breath he’d ever held, Jahaan felt tears of relief trickle down his face.

_ Thanks for letting him stay, Icthlarin, _ Jahaan whispered internally to himself, getting out his waterskin and knife from his backpack. Gently, he helped Ozan take small sips to clear the dust from his throat. The man tried to speak, but it only resulted in a dozen more coughs.

“Take this and don’t talk,” Jahaan instructed. Ozan was in no position to argue. 

While Ozan dozily held onto the waterskin, Jahaan carefully cut the burned and charred clothing from around Ozan’s more severe burns, seeing as most of it had already fused to the skin and couldn’t be treated just yet. When he heard the waterskin drop, Jahaan saw that Ozan was shaking, severely. Fighting back the poisonous worry, he helped lay Ozan down flat on the cool citadel floor, using his backpack to try and elevate his feet somewhat. With the discarded, yet still almost full waterskin, Jahaan tried to rinse clean some of Ozan’s burns, causing the man to jolt and shudder with the contact. Wincing through it, Jahaan continued until the waterskin was nearly empty, saving just enough in case Ozan needed a drink later. Feeling the aching dryness in the back of his throat, Jahaan fought the urge to take a gulp for himself. Ozan needed it more.

 

Jahaan didn’t notice the sun start to rise, but being so high up in the clouds, once he clocked onto it, he could get a magnificent view. Ozan was sleeping now, uncomfortable and charred and ragged on the citadel floor, but sleep was the only cure for his injuries right now. Jahaan couldn’t leave him up here without treatment for long, but he couldn’t bring him back down to Gielinor’s surface. For all he was aware, Zemouregal assumed them both dead, and as long as the wicked Mahjarrat kept thinking that way, they were safe from him trying to finish the job.

No, until Ozan was able to stand - gods know how long that would take - they would remain in the safety of the skies. The invitation box would plant them right in the centre of the clearing north of Ardougne, a town with guilds and medical supplies that could potentially aid them.

It was also the closest town to Hazeel’s hideout and Khazard’s territory, making the large city home to who-knows how many spies and soldiers loyal to the Zamorakian Mahjarrat.

_ What if they had sent word out about me? What if the word got back to Zemouregal? _

It was these thoughts that helped focus part of his mind on something other than his wounded, half-dying best friend lying beside him. These worries kept him sane, and they kept the anger bubbling up. Jahaan did not resent this - subconsciously, he  _ welcomed  _ it. That hate he’d felt for Lucien for so long, the longing to slit his throat and watch the blood drain from his eyes, to see him torn apart by a pack of hungry hellhounds, to see his head caved in by a crude hammer... 

...now all that was redirecting itself at Zemouregal, and it made him feel  _ alive _ . The skin on his arms and hands fizzed with nervous energy, and his breathing was ragged and out of sync. It was exactly how he felt before he cut down that knight outside of Al Kharid, where everything inside of him coiled up and spat out this violence, this hatred, this blind and murderous rage.

He’d felt like this many times before, and Ozan was one of the few that could help him control it. After the murder of Guthix, Jahaan knew that his wires were frayed, and when he finally snapped, Ozan was the only one that could calm him down, that could bring him back to earth.

He needed to get to Zemouregal before the element of surprise was over, before the Mahjarrat realised the two of them escaped alive, albeit barely. He’d find him, and however he damn well could, whether it was by a sword, axe, arrow or his bare hands, he’d kill him.

“I’ll fucking kill him,” Jahaan muttered under his breath, repeatedly, his teeth chattering as his pulse started to race.

 

Due to his frayed nerves, teetering his sanity on a knife’s edge, as soon as Jahaan heard the whisper of a teleport spell enter the citadel, he slashed his dagger from his belt and shot up from Ozan’s side, ready for war.

However, when it was Sliske who walked into the chamber, he managed to relax his stance, though only slightly.

“What are you doing here?” he snapped.

“I could ask you the same question now, couldn’t I?” Sliske returned, sauntering closer. His eyes conveyed something unfamiliar to Jahaan. Something that combined curiosity with apprehension. Something almost akin to  _ worry _ . “I told you, I like to come here to watch the sunrise. But what are you doing here? What happened to you, and-” his eyes fell to Ozan, and his tone was a lot more stern when he demanded, “What happened, World Guardian?”

Sheathing his dagger, Jahaan replied through gritted teeth. “Your Mahjarrat friend, Zemouragal, happened. Apparently he didn’t take too kindly to me siding with you over Zamorak.”

Sliske let out a tight exhale, muttering something in a harsh vocabulary that hurt Jahaan’s ears. Turning back to Jahaan, he asked again, slowly, “What happened, World Guardian? Tell me everything.”

That was all Jahaan needed to unleash everything that had transpired in the short evening that felt like a lifetime. How he woke up next to the severed heads of Sir Tiffy and Thaerisk, with Zemouregal looming over the edge of his bed; how the Mahjarrat had set fire to the inn, causing the flames to engulf the building at an unprecedented rate; how he and Ozan barely escaped with their lives thanks to the invitation box Jahaan had held onto and, finally, how Zemouregal was going to  _ pay _ .

Once he’d finished his heated rant, through which Sliske had listened patiently, not reacting much at all, Jahaan felt breathless. Panting, he didn’t even notice just how red in the face he’d gotten, or how the vein in his forehead had started to bulge. After a few short breaths, Jahaan looked straight into Sliske’s yellow irises and demanded, “I need you to teleport me to Zemouregal’s fortress.”

Sliske blinked. “Come again?”

“Teleport me to the fortress, NOW,” Jahaan barked, his teeth chattering again.

“Yes… no I’m not doing that.”

“I’m going to kill him, Sliske, and all I need is a teleport,” Jahaan felt sick with impatience, his nerve-endings alive with electricity.

Again, Sliske refused. “A teleport to your demise? I don’t think so.”

Throwing his backpack over his shoulder, Jahaan declared, “Fine. I’LL FUCKING WALK.”

Blocking Jahaan’s path to the scattered invitation box, Sliske said, “Hey now, you only best Zemmy once and, if you're being honest with yourself, that was a fluke. If you give him home turf, well... if the cold and the bandits don't kill you, his undead army will finish you off before you even reach him. And besides, you’ve lost your armour and your weaponry - are you really going to try and murder a Mahjarrat with that little butterknife? Think this through.”

Admittedly, Jahaan began to hesitate, gravity slowly clawing him back down to the ground.

It was only when Sliske added, “And besides, what of Ozan? You really expect me to babysit him while you get yourself killed?” that Jahaan finally tossed his bag back down to the floor and dropped to his knees.

Gravity had brought him down, and now it was suffocating him. Gazing over at Ozan’s near-lifeless body, the nausea churning in the pit of Jahaan’s stomach caused him to wretch, but he swallowed it down. His head was spinning at a rate of knots, the lump in his throat choking him. One by one, tears started streaming down his cheeks, but he didn’t even bother to wipe them away. The salt stung, but he held his eyes on Ozan.

His disjointed, weighted thoughts were interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, Sliske had those very same eyes again, ones of sympathy - a state of mind that Jahaan didn’t know Mahjarrat were even capable of, least of all Sliske.

“Come with me,” he said, quietly, offering Jahaan a hand to help him up.

Taking it, Jahaan dazedly began, “B-But what about…”

“In his condition, Ozan will sleep for hours. I’ll hide him in the Shadow Realm,” Sliske assured, “Zemouregal won’t be able to find him. Don’t worry.”

Sliske knelt down beside Ozan and placed a hand on his chest. Then, with a wave of his other hand, Ozan was wrapped in shadows and mist, and when it cleared, he was gone.

Holding out his hand again, Sliske repeated, “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” Jahaan managed to ask, hesitantly holding out his arm.

A small smile crept into the corners of Sliske’s lips, but for once, it bore no malice. “I don’t get to say this and mean it often, but trust me, Jahaan.”

And you know what? Jahaan did.

He took Sliske’s hand, and they were whisked away.


	33. Eye for an Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 08: MARK OF ZEMOUREGAL  
> Chapter 2 - Eye for an Eye
> 
> Because of Jahaan’s betrayal of Zamorak during their heist of the Stone of Jas, Zemouregal takes the matter of revenge into his own hands. When Jahaan looks to get even, he enlists the help of his Mahjarrat allies to take the fight to Zemouregal…

Ahh, Prifddinas. The greatest city of the elves. Nay, the greatest settlement in all of Gielinor! Since hearing the tales of a crystal empire as a child, Jahaan had always wanted to visit. However, they didn’t let just anyone in, and their seclusion was part of why they’d survived since the First Age without external conflict. Throughout the God Wars the elves protected themselves by erecting massive granite walls across their eastern border, refusing to involve themselves in the conflicts of the other gods, as was their goddess’ intention. The aforementioned goddess? Seren, a name spoken in curiosity among the other races of Gielinor. Nobody really knew too much about the origins of the crystalline goddess, only that she brought the elves from their homeworld of Tarddiad. The legend goes that Seren became mesmerised by the elves and their way of living, and upon seeing one of them die of age, was overcome with such great sorrow that she tried to use her godly powers to extend their lifespan. However, in doing so, she accidentally tied them to her, causing them to grow ill and perish when out of her presence for too long. Thus, when Guthix’s Edicts required Seren to depart, she shattered herself into a million crystal fragments so that a part of her would always be with her elves. At some point towards the end of the Fifth Age, Seren had been reformed, and lived among her elves once more. At some point during its history, tales claim that Prifddinas had somehow, miraculously, reverted to the size of a single crystal seed. Yes, the largest settlement in all of Gielinor had shrunk to the size of an acorn, with the residents inside frozen in time. To top it all off, the legend claims that the elders of Prifddinas sung the city back to life.

Whether that was true or not, Jahaan was very skeptical. The saying goes that stranger things have happened, but, really,  _ have they? _

But when Jahaan emerged on a tall hilltop, surrounded by luscious forests and looking down over the crystal walls of the city, elven history was the furthest thing from his mind.

He’d never seen such shades of green before. Not murky likes the swamps of Morytania, not artificial like how greenery in Falador felt, not tainted like the plant life in Canifis and Draynor. Even the gnomes couldn’t lay claim to such a brilliant shade of nature’s favourite colour; this was what the elder gods had intended when they wove forests out of the anima. But the only thing more brilliant than the shades of nature were the crystals, shining like diamonds in the glow of the morning sun.

The entire city was constructed from these crystals, a substitute from the bulky wood and crude stone seen across most of Gielinor. The craftsmanship, the way the crystal bends to the will of the architect… Jahaan didn’t know enough about Prifddinas to know how the city was built from these crystals, or where they came from, and one day he hoped to find out, just as he hoped to walk through the city gates and up to the Tower of Voices, rumoured to be one of the tallest structures in all of Gielinor. Considering how it reached up into the heavens even from this distance, Jahaan could clearly see the rumours had some merit.

It was rare to see elves outside of Prifddinas. After all, why would they ever need to leave? Everything one could ever need was inside those crystal walls, from banks to bars, sawmills to staff shops, altars to anvils. It was a compact Gielinor. There were elves roaming the territory just outside of their walls; there had been a civil war among them not too long before Prifddinas’ supposed ‘restoration’ and smaller factions were still camped out south of the border. Alongside this, their were whisperings about elves in West Ardougne, and they were grave tales indeed. Talks of death guards, a fake plague, regicide and the intended mass killing of all of West Ardougne’s residents in order to summon a ‘dark lord’.

The thought of it made Jahaan’s head spin and his stomach churn.

So little is known about the elves, it’s hard to know what to believe. That’s why Jahaan wanted to go to Prifddinas, to search for information that his people in the Khandarin Desert had never concerned themselves with, being at opposite ends of the world and all.

This is the closest he’d ever come to the elven city, and after taking just a brief view from the hilltop, he never wanted to leave.

“Whoa…” was all he said, exhaling a shaky breath.

“Do you like it?” Sliske asked, but he knew it was a rhetorical question. Shifting his robe out of the way, he took a seat on the thick grass below. “This is about as close as, ah, someone like  _ me  _ can get without entering into the Shadow Realm, but it’s still quite a view.”

“Yeah, I do like it,” Jahaan’s eyes were transfixed on the crystal city as he took a seat beside the Mahjarrat. There was a peace inside him he hadn’t felt in hours, a respite from the anguish and worry. “I like it a lot.”

 

The two stared at the horizon for what felt like an eon, enjoying the serenity of the sunrise as it crept over the crystals in the distance.

Finally, it was Sliske who broke their content silence. Smiling without humour, he quietly whispered, more to himself than to Jahaan, “It must be nice, knowing there will always be a world after this one.”

“Huh?” Jahaan didn’t quite hear that.

“I said, it must be nice, living in a place like that,” he ‘repeated’, nodding his head towards Prifddinas with a wistful expression.

Jahaan didn’t completely believe that’s what he said, but he didn’t press it further. There was a peacefulness between the two of them, and Jahaan didn’t want to be the one to ruin it. Instead, he moved slightly closer to Sliske, and didn’t shy away when the Mahjarrat wrapped a warm, protective arm around him, pulling him softly against his chest.

It was the first time he’d felt at peace for a long while.

The two of them remained in quiet contemplation after that. Jahaan spent too much of it wondering what was going through the Mahjarrat’s mind. Sliske was an enigma, a puzzle to him, the quiet and the storm, but moreover, he was one thing Jahaan was becoming less and less reluctant to admit…

_ He’s not as bad as he seemed. _

Jahaan began to struggle to remember why he hated the Mahjarrat in the first place. He didn’t particularly want to remember. He had enough enemies, enough Mahjarrat enemies at that, to actively  _ want  _ another one.

Suddenly, his throat began to sour and the calmness inside his mind began to cloud.

_ Zemouregal. _

The storm in his head was brewing once more, manifesting as a knot in his stomach and a lump in his throat.

“I want him dead, Sliske,” Jahaan’s voice was grave; he didn’t need to say who he meant. “I want him dead, and I won't wait five hundred years for it to happen.”

The Mahjarrat kept looking towards Prifddinas as he said, “You're not the only one that wants him gone, you know. I can help you... but at a cost.”

Jahaan didn't blink. “Name your price.”

“I want your soul.”

_ Now  _ Jahaan blinked. “E-Excuse me?”

“I want your soul,” Sliske repeated, returning his gaze to Jahaan.

“Why? Do you want to… to make me a wight?” Jahaan shook his head in unnerved disbelief.

Quickly, Sliske replied, “Asking questions isn't part of the deal. You accept unconditionally, or you don’t accept my help at all.”

Jahaan thought for a long, hard moment, challenging Sliske’s satisfied expression. Finally, he declared, “If you help me kill him, you can have whatever the hell you want.”

 

And so it was settled. They were going to kill Zemouregal. Not just the two of them, mind - Sliske stated that it wouldn’t be too hard to persuade Azzanadra and Wahisietel to eliminate the threat he poses once and for all. Just by being a Zamorakian, Azzanadra already had skin in the game. Wahisietel might take a little bit more convincing, and Jahaan offered to talk to him while Sliske went to Azzanadra. Knowing the strained relationship between the two brothers, Jahaan knew he stood a better chance than Sliske did at enlisting Wahisietel to their cause.

Firstly, however, Jahaan had to get Ozan somewhere more permanent to recuperate. The poor man was still sound asleep, comatose, but at least he was alive.

“Do you have anyone you trust he can stay with? Anyone that can protect him?” Sliske inquired.

“You mean, do I know anyone capable of fending of a Mahjarrat?” Jahaan shook his head. “No.”

“They shouldn’t have to fight off Zemmy,” Sliske assured. “He thinks you’re dead, remember? And one of the upsides of being dead is that no-one comes looking for you. So as long as you don’t parade him in Varrock Square, he should be safe.”

Considering this, Jahaan replied, “In that case, I know where he can go.”

 

Jahaan emerged just in front of the bridge connecting Draynor to the Wizards' Tower, dropping to his knees and sending Ozan tumbling to the ground upon landing. Sliske hadn’t stuck around long enough to ensure a smooth landing, it seemed. Groaning in pain, Jahaan quickly realised that once the adrenaline had worn off, he was in no fit shape. Wincing with a silent apology to Ozan, he tested out his legs again before picking up his friend and carrying him over the bridge.

It didn’t take long for the Wizards' to allow Jahaan inside, seeing the state of the poor man he was holding. The wizards were well acquainted with Ozan by this point, and Jahaan had met a fair few of them on his travels too.

Ushered into the medical bay, Ozan was set down on one of the cots as someone went to find Ariane. It didn’t take long for her to make it down, rushing to Ozan’s side with her heart in her throat. “What happened to him?”

Gulping, Jahaan stammered as he explained, “T-There was a fire… I w-was attacked, and he was d-drugged, and…”

Trailing off, Jahaan’s head was so foggy he honestly had no idea where to begin; he felt like he was trapped inside an awful dream, the edges of the world blurry and faded. Reality was far too much to handle.

“You were attacked? So it was arson...” when Ariane turned to Jahaan, the man noted her eyes were much more accusational than concerned, and he was taken aback, especially as she was quick to demand, “What have you got him mixed up in this time?”

Mouth hung agape, Jahaan took a few paces back, his wide eyes held captive by her glare. “W-What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Jahaan,” Ariane snapped, the soothing hand she wrapped inside Ozan’s lifeless ones juxtaposed harshly with her seething tone, though she tried to keep her voice down to a quiet hiss. “You’re a picture of guilt. Let me guess, you ticked off the wrong people and they came back for revenge. Only this time, Ozan was collateral damage. Ozan told me about the company you’ve been keeping; was it the same Mahjarrat who killed Guthix that did this to him?”

“N-No… I mean, yes it was a Mahjarrat, but not the same one,” Jahaan stated, nervously rubbing the back of his head, injured from each of Ariane’s cutting words that felt as if they were closing in around his throat. “Yes, this is all my fault. But I’m going to make it right.”

“Make it right?” Ariane replied with incredulation. “You’re only liable to make things worse! Why Guthix ever chose you as-”

She cut herself off there, taking a long breath to calm herself. Even Ariane looked slightly regretful at where her words were leading her.

The sentiment, however, had already stung, and Jahaan had no words to say.

Despite mutually knowing each other for years through Ozan, Jahaan had always gotten the impression that Ariane had never taken to him. Occasionally he’d ask Ozan if this were the case, and he’d laugh and deny it, saying it was all in Jahaan’s head. But deep down, he always knew, and now he had confirmation.

Sighing heavily, Ariane continued, in a much lower and measured voice this time, “We’ll heal him as much as we can and keep him safe. When he’s awake, you can come and visit him. After that, I don’t want you seeing Ozan ever again.”

 

Jahaan used the invitation box to make his way back to the Empyrean Citadel. He needed time to deliberate his encounter with Ariane, but now wasn’t the moment. Work had to be done, and the more time he wasted, the more likely Zemouregal would find out he was alive, and thus the element of surprise would be lost.

Sliske had offered to teleport Jahaan to Nardah in order to avoid the magic carpet debacle again, something for which Jahaan was incredibly grateful. He didn’t think his head could take another round of motion sickness.

 

The dust settled, and Jahaan was back in Nardah. Well, about half a mile outside Nardah; Sliske didn’t think a Mahjarrat springing into their town centre would go down well for anyone, except for the pitchfork selling business.

Trudging through the sand, Jahaan was almost thankful his armour had been destroyed, but less thankful that he hadn’t refilled his waterskin, making a mental note to do that when he got to the town’s fountain.

When he reached Ali the Wise’s house, he barely had to knock before the door was thrown open, stern and suspicious eyes darting past Jahaan and into the distance. “Come inside,” he ushered, quickly, taking one last look behind him before he closed the door.

“What’s the matter?” Jahaan inquired, puzzled.

“Sliske was nearby,” Wahisietel stated. “I felt his presence. Thought you might be him at my door.”

“I think he’s got a few inches on me, can’t see how you could mistake us,” Jahaan chuckled.

Wahisietel furrowed his brow as Jahaan’s relaxed demeanour. “Are you not concerned? It was you who came here to escape him not that long ago.”

“Sliske brought me here,” Jahaan explained, smiling at the reaction it brought to the disguised Mahjarrat’s face. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you everything. You might wanna sit down for this one…”

 

While Jahaan conversed with Wahisietel, Sliske went to go convince Azzanadra to join their plight. He slipped off his disguise as soon as he entered the Temple at what used to be Senntisten. Azzanadra, having sensed his arrival, was pensively waiting at the other end of the chamber, nearest the altar.

“Sliske,” he gruffly greeted, folding his arms over his chest. “You have got quite the nerve to be showing your face around here after your excommunication.”

“Ah yes, well,” Sliske clapped his hands together. “I was hoping we might be able to sweep that one under the rug, for now at least. I have a proposition for you. One I think you'd rather enjoy...”

 

Wahisietel nearly spit the tea out from his mouth. “You’re going to kill Zemouregal?!”

Hushing him, Jahaan hissed, “Why don’t you shout a little louder, I don’t think the barber in Falador heard you.”

“My apologies, I just…” shaking his head, Wahisietel composed himself. “This is no small feat. Zemouregal is not to be brushed off lightly, as you know. While I do wish to see his head unattached from his shoulders, I-”

Looking down at Jahaan’s expression, Wahisietel winced. “Apologies for my turn of phrase. Sir Tiffy Cashien was a noble knight, and Thaerisk Cemphier seemed like a good man, in the brief time I spent with them. I am truly sorry for your loss.”

“Their loss has to be avenged,” Jahaan resolved, gravely. “I know the risks, but I can’t let them be murdered in vain. What would you do in my shoes?”

From the change of expression on his face, it appeared as if this was a turning point for Wahisietel. “It would be hypocritical of me to say I would act any differently. They may call me ‘Ali the Wise’ in these human lands, but I am still of the Mahjarrat. One thing that still sticks in my craw, though, is Sliske’s involvement in it all. Why is he helping you?”

“He wants my soul,” Jahaan replied as nonchalantly as possible, amused by the look of surprise that elicited from his Mahjarrat companion. “Obviously I’m not going to let that happen. Your brother is-”

“Half-brother.”

“Your _ half _ -brother is… he’s not as bad as you say he is, but even I have limits.”

“I must ask, why do you defend him so?” Wahisietel inquired, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “He murdered Guthix in front of you, tricked you, betrayed you, lied to you, stalked you, and from what I’ve heard from Azzanadra, he’s attacked you as well. I don’t understand your loyalty. You know, you remind me of Azzanadra, but at least I can understand that one. Well, somewhat.”

Crinkling his brow, Jahaan asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well, you see - and this stays strictly between us, you hear? - back in the Zarosian Empire, and even on Freneskae, Azzanadra and Sliske went through a period of being… close.”

Jahaan blinked. “Close?”

“Close,” Wahisietel reiterated, his hands conducting an invisible orchestra in front of him as his mind danced for the right words. “You humans might refer to it as a relationship.”

Now it was Jahaan who nearly spit out his tea. “Sliske and Azzanadra were an item?!”

Jahaan didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and it seemed Wahisietel was struggling with the same dilemma as he replied, “I know, it’s baffling why they’d waste their time on such things. But Azzanadra was the leader of the church, and Sliske was the leader of the secret police. No-one would dare speak out against them. On Freneskae, few were aware of their dynamic. Those that were kept silent, for they were outpowered. I understand Sliske’s charm and charisma, things he used to his advantage whenever he was bored in Senntisten. Such a trivial past-time. People fell under his spell, and it was always their downfall. Even Zaros’ most beloved pontifex could not escape.”

Wahisietel returned to his tea. “After all these years, it still baffles me why Azzanadra resolves to trust Sliske, and now you’re following his lead. Heh. As long as-”

Wahisietel froze, his cup glued to the tops of his lips, his eyes wide with realisation. Slowly, he raised his head and glared through Jahaan with a strange mix of confusion and abject horror. “Please, for Zaros’ sake, please tell me I’m wrong…”

Jahaan winced, breaking contact with Wahisietel’s eyes. It was all the confirmation he needed, yet the Mahjarrat pressed, “What did he do to you?”

“He didn’t do anything,” Jahaan assured, biting the inside of his lip. “He… he tried, but nothing happened. Believe me.”

Wahisietel’s unwavering glare bore holes through the man. “But you wanted to, didn’t you?”

Jahaan’s shameful inability to meet Wahisietel’s gaze said everything that needed to be said.

The Mahjarrat mumbled something in infernal, rising to his feet as he paced the room. “I warned you about him, Jahaan. But I never knew that… never could have DREAMED that… that you would…”

Stopping to face Jahaan, he stated with unwavering assurance, “He does not harbour feelings. He is incapable. He just uses people for his own amusement, then he discards them when they stop being entertaining, or when they are no longer useful. I don’t know what game he’s playing with you, but he’s playing a game, Jahaan!”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Jahaan shot up, ever so slightly taller than Wahisietel when he was in his Ali form. “I know what he’s like, Wahisietel - I’ve got first-hand fucking experience with that. But damnit, he’s inside my head, always inside my head, and I can’t take it!”

Suddenly, Jahaan whirled on the thing closest to him - a bookshelf - in order to expend the pent-up rage his outburst had summoned. Unfortunately, the books were a little less forgiving than Jahaan would have liked, and the thick novels put up a decent defence; Jahaan clutched his battered hand, the knuckles already forming a purple bruise, his fingers shaking and unable to move. “Gods, FUCK!” Jahaan cursed, turning back to Wahisietel with an indignant expression akin to, ‘do you see what they did to me?!’. Muttering lowly, though with the slightest hint of an amused smile, Wahisietel went to get a medical kit.

A few bandages and another cup of tea later, Jahaan had calmed down, feeling rather embarrassed about his childish flare-up. Miraculously, nothing had fractured; Jahaan deduced he was too exhausted to give the punch all he had. That, or he just had a pathetically weak right hook, which he’d rather not be the case.

The silence that followed was awkward, each man lost in their own contemplation of the preceding events. Eventually, it was Wahisietel who broke the quiet, carefully beginning, “I have said my piece in regards to you and my half-brother. I trust that you know what you are doing.”

“You shouldn’t, because I don’t even know what I’m doing,” Jahaan sniffed a humourless laugh.

“I just wish I knew why he wanted my soul. I thought he wanted to make me a wight, but when I asked him, he deflected. I don’t think that’s the case, but why else would he want my soul?”

Stroking the beard his human form had adopted, Wahisietel replied, “Sliske has always been fascinated in souls. He used to talk to me about a Teragardian magister by the name of ‘Oreb’, who experimented with the power of souls and hypothesised that souls can be transferred from one body to another. This is the same magister who took in Nomad as his pupil, much later in life. Sliske was particularly interested in his theories.”

“Why was that, do you reckon?”

“Well, for one, Mahjarrat don’t  _ have  _ souls. Therefore, we cannot pass onto an afterlife, for a soul is required to do such a thing. For all his blustering, there is one thing Sliske fears: death.”

Suddenly, it clicked into place, the phrase Jahaan thought he didn’t quite hear outside of Prifddinas:  _ ‘It must be nice, knowing there will always be a world after this one’. _

“So, he wants my soul so he can go to an afterlife?” Jahaan surmised. “But that would leave me with the inability to go to one myself.”

Frowning, Wahisietel grimly restated, “He uses people. He doesn’t take interest in them unless they have something to offer.”

“But…” Jahaan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “But why my soul? Why not just anyone?”

Shrugging, Wahisietel confessed, “That I cannot be sure of, I’m afraid.”

“Is there anything I can do to protect myself, if he tries to take my soul by force?”

His frown deepening, Wahisietel replied, “There is no spell, prayer or curse that I’m aware of that can do such a thing. My advice is to not get into a situation where your soul in vulnerable. Though how you would go about that, I am not sure. I don’t even know how he would go about transferring your soul into himself.”

This uncertainty didn’t exactly fill Jahaan with much comfort. Then again, Sliske was uncertainty incarnate; sipping his tea, Jahaan continued on, “These random, bizarre acts of kindness from Sliske... I don't know what to make of them. I can't ever tell if he's being genuine, or if he's just messing with me. I know, I know, you say he only ever uses people, but… but maybe he can be nice - even a broken clock is right twice a day, right? I mean, he saved my life at the Ritual, he helped keep Ozan safe…”

Jahaan neglected to mention their recent excursion to the outskirts of Prifddinas. He didn't quite know why, but sharing that information so freely just didn't feel right. It was like a secret he promised not to tell, unspoken though it was.

Wahisietel did not look impressed. “You do not know him like I know him, Jahaan, and I hope you never meet the Sliske I once knew.”

A crooked smile broke into Jahaan’s features, one devoid of humour. “I’ve heard stories.”

“Stories do not do his actions justice, but that is a conversation for another time,” setting down his teacup, Wahisietel closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, like he was trying to shift Sliske’s ghost from his thoughts. “Now, about Zemouregal - are you serious about killing him?”

His resolve returned, Jahaan stated, “I am.”

“And you say that Azzanadra is aiding us in this?”

“Sliske’s gone to convince him.”

“Then perhaps it would pay us to join him,” Wahisietel declared, reverting to his Mahjarrat form. “We’re going to need to strategise, after all.”

 

_ Meanwhile... _

“Hmm… well, we certainly have enough firepower on our side to outmatch him,” Azzanadra was pondering aloud, running through the idea in his head. Sliske wasn’t all that surprised he could talk Azzanadra into killing Zemouregal so easily; there was no love lost between the two, after all. “It would be one less opponent at the next Ritual. Out of all the Zamorakians, he certainly is the most insufferable.”

Turning towards Sliske, he declared, “If the World Guardian manages to get Wahisietel on our side, then you have my support too. Zaros can only be pleased at us for sending that traitor into the void.”

Knowing he’d succeeded, Sliske grinned. “Oh, the Empty Lord will be most pleased. The World Guardian is convincing my brother now. He agreed to meet us here if all was successful.”

Looking around at the renovated chamber, Sliske admired the attention to detail Azzanadra had put into the restoration. Whomever the carpenter was, Sliske made a mental note to ask for their information if he ever decided to renovate the Barrows. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Brings back memories.”

Sighing wistfully, Azzanadra replied, “It feels like home.”

Raising an eyebrow, Sliske countered, “You don’t feel like Freneskae is your home anymore?”

“I stopped feeling that way as soon as Zaros took us in,” Azzanadra gazed longingly at the symbol on the far wall. “There is no home without him.”

“Right…” Sliske awkwardly rocked on his heels. He’d never felt the devotion his Mahjarrat companion had to the Empty Lord. Oh, he’d been loyal. He’d even been a follower. One might have called him devout, at a pinch. But Azzanadra was on an entirely different level.

Then again, Sliske agreed it did feel nice being back in the temple. It reminded him of a time when he had a role in society, and while that inevitably grew  _ boring _ , such times had a treasured place in his memories. Those were days that would never be seen again.

It was then he turned to study Azzanadra, who was repositioning the candles on the altar. His robes draped perfectly over him, like a royal coat, and while he did insist on wearing that  _ ridiculous hat _ , he managed to pull it off with prowess and grace.

So to did Azzanadra bring back some welcomed memories.

Sliske saw an opportunity, and he decided to test the waters.

He slipped closer to Azzanadra, his shadow a sneering presence that towered over them both. With a coy smirk, he smoothly remarked, “You know, it’s been such a long time since you and I have been alone together.”

There was no way Azzanadra didn’t get the insinuation; he met Sliske with stern eyes. “There’s good reason for that.”

“And what, pray tell, is that?” Sliske gently brushed his hand over Azzanadra’s, who to their mutual surprise did not immediately flinch away.

“Don’t act so innocent,” Azzanadra snapped. “You know damn well what I mean.”

“The excommination?” sniffing a faint laugh, Sliske looked up at the taller Mahjarrat with half-lidded eyes and moved closer to him, so that their chests touched. “Since when has Zaros ever gotten between us before? I seem to remember a certain Pontifex Maximus regularly calling the Praefectus Praetorio into his office for more than just matters of state...”

Sliske let the words linger, hot breath on Azzanadra’s cheek.

 

At that moment, Wahisietel and Jahaan emerged inside the temple. Catching the scene, Jahaan forced himself to suppress a smirk as he remarked, “Are we interrupting something?”

Wahisietel just shook his head with disappointment.

Sighing with frustration, Sliske whirled around and commented, “Crackerjack timing, and here I thought Wahi would take longer to convince.”

Despite himself, Jahaan felt like giggling, and covered his mouth with his hand until he was certain he’d contained himself. During this, Wahisietel spoke up, “Jahaan has told me of your plan, Sliske. What say you, Azzanadra?”

“I am willing to partake,” Azzanadra declared. “We have three times his power. It is the perfect opportunity. And,” he turned to Jahaan, trying to muster what to a Mahjarrat would pass as ‘sympathy’. “We finally have the incentive to remove that stain from this world. I am sorry at the price you and your comrades had to pay, Jahaan.”

Jahaan nodded solemnly in way of thanks. “So, when do we go? Tonight?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sliske was the first one to cut in. “You are running on nothing but fumes. You need to rest if you are to be of any help to us.”

Jahaan opened his mouth to protest, but the action betrayed him, turning into a yawn. Smugly, Sliske grinned.

“Fine,” Jahaan conceded, admitting to himself that he was exhausted. “When then?”

“Five days,” Azzanadra stated. “While I admire your enthusiasm, Sliske’s right - you need to be of use to us, and you can’t do that unless you have armour and a weapon. Your previous set was destroyed in the fire, yes? I will provide you with another set, specially made.”

Gobsmacked, Jahaan had to shake his head to order his thoughts. “That… that is incredibly generous of you, Azzanadra. Thank you, deeply.”

Azzanadra managed the faintest of smiles. “It is the least I could do. After all, it was you who brought my lord back to me.”


	34. Ready for Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 08: MARK OF ZEMOUREGAL  
> Chapter 3 - Ready for Battle
> 
> Because of Jahaan’s betrayal of Zamorak during their heist of the Stone of Jas, Zemouregal takes the matter of revenge into his own hands. When Jahaan looks to get even, he enlists the help of his Mahjarrat allies to take the fight to Zemouregal…

Jahaan agreed to lay low at the temple with Azzanadra until they were ready to attack. After all, the last place Zemouregal was likely to wander into was a Zarosian Temple. If he could stay out of sight until then, they’d still have the element of surprise. Then again, how much they actually needed it was debatable, what with a three-Mahjarrat assault on their side.

The next day, at dusk, the three reconvened in the Temple to strategise.

Zemouregal's fort is a manor located east of Trollweiss Mountain, deep in the snowy realms of northern Gielinor. It was given to him by Zamorak for his assistance in overthrowing Zaros in the Second Age, and has since been used as his home and base of operations. One might think that it must be quite lonely up there, having no-one for company other than his undead minions. Well, he does have his second in command with him up there, a gargoyle by the name of Sharathteerk. Now, gargoyles aren’t usually known for their sentience, but Sharathteerk was different; his intelligence and loyalty allowed him the rank of Zemouregal’s second.

I’m sure after a few centuries, though, the two ran out of things to talk about.

The fortress itself was high towers and solid stone walls, sharp portcullises and a grand skull carved into the front, just to reiterate - if it wasn’t already apparent - that one should ‘be afraid, be very afraid’. Zombies patrolled the perimetre, slowly lumbering on anything that catches their… eye? Ear? Nose? However zombies target their prey, anyway. Now, one zombie isn’t a problem for almost anyone with a sharp enough sword and the forethought to aim for the head. Zemouregal had FUCKTONNES.

From afar it looked like a grotty ocean, the mindless movements of the zombies resembling waves crashing and falling. For zombies, the best strategy is to take them out from a distance, as they can’t really do much about an enemy with a bow and arrow or a magic spell. If you have one to hand, a canon takes them out in no time.

Alas, Jahaan and his merry band of Mahjarrat didn’t have a cannon to hand, but they did have a lot of mystic firepower.

So, for a frontal assault, they’d be no problem, right? Well, as Jahaan found out in Guthix’s chamber, Zemouregal is wise enough to at least know when he is bested, and even he wouldn’t dare take on three Mahjarrat and a bloke with a couple of swords all by himself; if he saw the assault charging over the horizon, he’d likely make a break for it, and the opportunity would be lost.

“Why not just teleport into his fortress, kill the son of a bitch and high tail it out of there?” Jahaan suggested.

A teleport block, put simply. Zemouregal and his minions can leave and enter, but no-one unauthorised can teleport inside. It’s a basic magic spell that prominent figures across Gielinor use to protect their castles, strongholds, homes, anything at all. Yet despite its simplicity, no-one has discovered a way to break it. Rumour has it that the dark wizards have been experimenting, but with little success.

“We have to cast our own teleport block around the fortress,” Azzanadra stated, sighing as he begrudgingly added, “However, this can only be done after the beacon containing his teleport block spell is broken.”

There was also another issue - Zemouregal can sense the presence of Mahjarrat around him.

“But he can’t sense me,” Jahaan was quick to declare. “If I can break that beacon, you can cast the tele-block spell. We'll then be able to storm the fortress and he won’t be able to escape.”

Wahisietel considered this. “It’s a start, but there are still many issues to this plan. For instance, how would you get inside Zemouregal’s fortress? Even with those swords of yours, you would be overrun in an instant against his undead horde.”

“Lamistard’s tunnels,” Sliske piped up, softly. He was staring at the ground, locked in quiet concentration. It was only now he regained his excited energy to explain, “Remember, the Mahjarrat who tried to tunnel his way to be underneath the Ritual Marker, but instead the damn fool accidentally wound up inside Zemouregal’s Fortress?”

“The sacrifice at the 16th Gielinorian Ritual,” Azzanadra nodded in remembrance, a smile tugging at his lips as he realised where Sliske was going with this. “Jahaan could make his way through the tunnels and bypass the horde.”

“You can’t go alone,” Wahisietel stated. “But he’ll sense one of us if we’re nearby. Sliske, does the Shadow Realm mask his Mahjarrat sensing ability?”

“Somewhat,” Sliske replied, tentatively. “But if we’re that close, he’ll notice something. My suggestion is that one of you two goes to the Ritual Marker. He’ll sense a Mahjarrat close by, but your presence will conflict with mine, and he won’t be able to tell how close the World Guardian and I are to him.”

Sternly, Wahisietel countered, “I think it best that  _ I  _ accompany the World Guardian.”

Trying to hide a smile, Sliske inquired, “When was the last time you entered the Shadow Realm, brother?”

“While I don’t lurk in the shadows as much as you, Sliske, I know how to navigate the Shadow Realm.”

In order to prove it, Wahisietel stepped forward, closing his eyes to concentrate deeply.

Nothing happened.

Wahisietel squinted. His proficiency with the Shadow Realm had been nothing in comparison to his half-brother, but he could at least  _ see  _ into the thing. But no matter how hard he focused, he couldn’t manage it.

“Sliske, have you tampered with the Shadow Realm somehow?” he accused, gruffly. It seemed like a far-out claim, but if anyone was bold enough to tamper with an entire  _ realm _ , it was Sliske.

“Ah, yes,” Sliske chuckled nervously. “An unfortunate side-effect of an ongoing plan. Neither you, nor Azzanadra, nor any Mahjarrat can see into the Shadow Realm.”

“Sliske, that’s-!” Wahisietel stormed over to Sliske, who disappeared into the Shadow Realm with a click of his fingers before Wahisietel could deck him.

_ “Calm down, Wahi,” _ Sliske’s voice was echoed now that it was emanating from another realm.  _ “Look on the bright side - Zemmy can’t get in either. Only Janny and I.” _

Azzanadra crinkled his brow. “Why did you give the World Guardian access to the Shadow Realm?”

Reappearing behind Jahaan, Sliske placed two large gloved hands on Jahaan’s shoulders and shrugged. “Seemed like a fun idea at the time.”

“It’ll be fine,” Jahaan straightened up his shoulders, but didn’t shrug off the palms. “Sliske and I can handle this. If you go to the Marker, Azzanadra can cast the spell when it’s ready.”

Stepping forward, Azzanadra grew rather serious as he said, “Now listen, I know you want to take on Zemouregal alone - your tenacity would be commendable if it wasn’t so foolhardy. Yes, your armour will help protect against his magicks, and your swords can do a great deal of damage if you managed to get close enough, but the chances of you besting Zemouregal without our help is slim to none.”

“You tricked him into fighting on even ground once,” Sliske continued, “He won’t be tricked so easily this time, not when his back is against the wall. He will come at you with everything he has in order to survive.”

Wahisietel finished, “Allow us to help weaken him. If you must, you can strike the final blow in order to sate your bloodlust, but without our assistance in the battle, all of this will be in vein. You will die, and you can’t exactly enact vengeance from beyond the grave.”

Reluctantly, Jahaan let this sink in, looking between the Mahjarrat as they tried to convey the severity of what they were about to undertake. It hadn’t quite hit home for Jahaan yet, with his adrenaline and urge for revenge still at an all time high; the anger had sizzling under the surface of his skin ever since the night of the fire, though he’d kept it dormant for now. The Mahjarrat had a point, after all - if he was being honest with himself, Jahaan would admit that he got lucky against Zemouregal last time.

After contemplating this for a while, Jahaan accepted, “Okay, you’re right, I can’t face him alone. But please, let me be the one to end him for good.”

His smile growing with a hint of wickedness, Wahisietel said, “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

 

In the days that followed, Jahaan was getting rather restless in the Temple, for there wasn’t exactly much in the way of entertainment, and he often felt like a bother to his Mahjarrat host, who liked to spend most of his time in quiet prayer or reading one of the vast amounts of novels he'd accumulated over the years.

Jahaan was too restless to settle into a book; his mind churned at all hours, either worrying about Ozan, thinking of his bitter conversation with Ariane, seething at the memory of Zemouregal, or worse, trying to figure out exactly what Sliske wanted with his soul. Wahisietel’s theory seemed on point, that Sliske simply needed a ticket into the afterlife.

_ But why me? _ The question repeated over and over in his mind.  _ Why go through this whole charade if that’s how you plan for it to end? _

He found himself having to force the thoughts from his head as they riled him up too much. Restlessness was bad enough, and he needed to direct his anger at Zemouregal right now, not Sliske. The latter could be dealt with once Zemouregal was in a shallow grave.

So, in order to free his mind from such stresses, Jahaan focused on some training. Despite feeling like he’d asked for too much already, Jahaan buckled up the courage to ask for some runes, both of the ancient and normal variety. If he was to be cooped up for a while, he might as well make the most of his time. There was still a section of the mines yet to be cleared up from the temple’s restoration that made a perfect training ground, and Jahaan fortunately had enough prowess by now to not bring the entire cave down on top of him with a misused spell.

Azzanadra’s gifts, however, might negate the need for magic in the end, but it’s always best to be prepared.

 

“This material is elder rune,” Azzanadra explained, presenting the custom made armour set and dual longswords to Jahaan. “It was first discovered in limited quantities in the Third Age, but only very recently have more ore veins been unearthed. Like runite, it’s protection against conventional weaponry is unparalleled, providing significant protection against melee fighters. However, elder rune is special - it provides the same mystic protection as high tier combat mage robes, the likes of which we Mahjarrat don. Since you might be in the line of fire from Zemouregal himself, this will improve your survival odds tenfold, alongside protecting you from his undead abominations.”

Jahaan’s eyes sparkled like a kid on Wintumber’s morning. The entire armour and weapons set much have cost Azzanadra a fortune; Jahaan had never come close to any merchants selling the armour, only heard rumours about them, and let’s just say, a full set like this cost even more than a two bedroom starter home in Menaphos’ Imperial District. When armour costs more than a house, you know you mean business. Just one of the longswords alone would cost more than the entirety of his previous rune armour set.

“Azzanadra, I…” he dazily began, half-minded to refuse the set, unworthy as he felt.

The smile that Azzanadra attempted tried to be warm and soothing, bless him, but it didn’t come naturally. Nevertheless, the sentiment came across to Jahaan as the Mahjarrat assured, “This is but pocket change to me, do not fear. Like I mentioned previously, I am in your debt, World Guardian.”

Turning one of the longswords over in his hand, Jahaan dreamily replied, “Consider the debt paid in full, and then some…”

 

Unsurprisingly, the armour fit like a glove. Azzanadra must have sized him up pretty well, because it felt like it was tailor made. The way the armour curved to his body, never impeding his movement, like it was moulding and reforming with every strike and lunge… he’d never felt so comfortable, not even in silk. In comparison, it made his rune armour feel like iron. That was quite an unfair comparison - many warriors would kill to have a full runite set, and considering he got the thing for free, he didn’t want to sound ungrateful - but he’d be lying if he said he could go onto any other armour after wearing elder rune. There was no turning back now, and Jahaan was quite enjoying this side of being the World Guardian. Having friends in high places led to a taste of the good life.

The only weird thing about the armour was the slight tingle that tickled his skin. Azzanadra explained this was normal, that it was the side effects of a non-divine being coming into contact with high mystic protection. Mages never seemed to mention that, so they must have gotten used to it quickly, and Jahaan found that after wearing the set for a few hours, he himself barely noticed it anymore.

Naturally, the swords were a dream. They were longswords, and while Jahaan was used to shortswords, he quickly adjusted. Despite their increased length, they were lighter than what he was used to, which increased his fluid movements and made each strike more precise, for he felt he had more control over them. Not to mention they were even more deadly that his last set - some poor training dummies confirmed that. Zemouregal’s armoured zombies usually wore iron or steel, so as an experiment, Jahaan put a steel platebody on a melee training dummy.

The armour, and the dummy inside, was sliced clean in half.

He’d had more strain slicing a loaf of bread.

Jahaan was raring to go, and a good thing too, for the next day, as soon as the sun set, they would strike Zemouregal’s fort.

 

Wahisietel shivered as the cold air of the Ritual Site bit through his robes. Once again, he’d come to the plateau underdressed, having not learned his lesson from last time. Huddling into himself, he approached the Marker with caution. It wasn’t exactly going to attack, but its presence was so imposing and formidable that it caused the ridges on his back to rise. On the ground, partially buried among the snow, he saw the shining glimmer of something. Carefully brushing the snow away, he noticed a yellow crystal glimmering. Lucien’s crystal.

The gem was now cold to the touch, having lost the life essence that allowed it to radiate heat. Picking it up, Wahisietel couldn’t help but feel a knot in his stomach.

_ This is all that is left of him, _ he thought to himself, turning the crystal over in his palm. Delicately, he placed it back on the ground where it was found, regretting having disturbed it in the first place. Mahjarrat superstation didn’t forbid the handling of gems; many carried around the crystals of their fallen kin, and Wahisietel was no exception, keeping them in an ornate box in his Nardah home. However, Lucien was not kin.

Memories of the last Ritual flashed through Wahisietel’s mind in an unwelcome storm, and it made him think towards the next Ritual. It was many centuries away, but time seemed to flow differently for an immortal, and it would creep upon him before he knew it. The question of a suitable sacrifice was one thing that troubled him. Killing Zemouregal was, in many ways, a waste of a perfectly good sacrifice, but it had to be done. With him and Lucien gone, that left Enakhra and Khazard as the last remaining Zamorakian Mahjarrat. As far as Wahisietel was aware, no other Zamorakian Mahjarrat remained on Gielinor, or at least none had attended the last Ritual.

Enakhra was still the last surviving female, so her safety was all but guaranteed. Khazard was the youngest, and it wouldn’t take too much for the others to come around to sacrificing him next.

_ But what of the Ritual after that? _ He was thinking many Rituals in advance now, but there was no doubt in his mind every other member of his race had contemplated the exact same thing, many, many times.

_ Soon it would leave a Zarosian, _ Wahisietel thought bitterly. Akthanakos was no doubt the weakest of their tribe left; he would be a prime candidate. Azzanadra was too powerful to ever be sacrificed, and Zaros would never allow it. Sliske was too strong as well, but the rate he was going, he’d be lucky if he made it to next year, let alone the next Ritual.

With a heavy heart he realised that he would be sacrificed before long, and then, soon enough, there would come the extinction of the Mahjarrat. Zaros had promised to free them from their Rituals - it was one of the reasons the Mahjarrat left Icthlarin for the Empty Lord - but he had yet to fulfil his promise.

Because of this, they were a dying species.

Instead of getting lost in his depressing thoughts, Wahisietel removed the CommOrb from his nap sack and awaited his cue. By now, Jahaan and Sliske would be enclosing on Zemouregal’s fortress.

It wouldn’t be long now…

 

Once Wahisietel was in place, Sliske and Jahaan could teleport into the vicinity in the Shadow Realm. Oddly, the biting cold of Trollweiss Mountain didn’t hit as hard as Jahaan thought it would. Perhaps the Shadow Realm negated some of the material realm’s harsh climates, or perhaps the mystic armour had some bizarre temperature regulating powers? Jahaan didn’t know, and he didn’t frankly care, as long as he wasn’t getting hypothermia on this night.

“The entrance to the tunnels should be just up this ridge,” Sliske stated, hugging his robes into himself slightly as they trudged through the thick snow.

Thankfully there weren’t any trolls in sight, not that it would matter all that much, since they were hidden from view in the Shadow Realm. The footprints they left behind, on the other hand, were visible, and Jahaan chuckled at the thought of some confused and perturbed trolls scratching their skulls at the invisible men hiking through their valleys.

Troll Country was, in many ways, beautiful - a canvas of perfect snow, crisp and clean, coating the ground and all its surroundings. Evergreen trees complimented the white decoration on its thick leaves, lovingly taking on the descending snowflakes as they scattered down from the skies.

Maybe it was the kid in him, but Jahaan couldn’t help but want to go sledging.

Now was not the time.

At the top of the ridge, a cave entrance protruded out of the snow, albeit barely. It took a little bit of digging with his gloved hands - Jahaan’s that it, Sliske sat back as ‘moral support’ - before the cave in its entirety was visible, tall enough for the both of them to fit through.

Despite having a match at the ready, Jahaan wasn’t prepared for just how dark the tunnel was, forcing himself to stumble into the nearest wall and feel his way to a torch in order to bring some light to the place. Once the first torch was lit, the tunnel opened up in front of them both, a somewhat neatly dug pathway marked by unlit torches. Jahaan carried the first torch with him, lighting the others as he went.

“Well, Lamistard didn’t do a half-bad job here,” Sliske remarked, eyeing up the cavern as they rounded their first corner. “Apart from the whole, you know, ‘sense-of-direction’ thing.”

“What was he like, this Lamistard?” Jahaan inquired, lighting another torch as he did so.

Waving his hand dismissively, Sliske replied, “No-one of note or importance. Stood with Zamorak against Zaros, but even that didn’t end up doing him many favours. Guess he knew even the Zamorakians were going to sacrifice him soon enough, so he tried to circumvent the Ritual. It… didn’t go to plan. Not that I’m complaining.”

“He died so you could live,” Jahaan all-but mumbled. The words felt heavy and cloying in his throat.

Shrugging, Sliske continued, “The Mahjarrat are a kratocratically ruled tribe, and our Ritual is the epitome of that. I didn’t make the rules, and I shan’t complain when they work in my favour.”

“Don’t you ever think of him?” Jahaan pressed, somewhat more strongly than he should have. “That you sent him into an eternity of nothingness, an end to his entire existence, just so you could keep on living?”

Sliske stopped in his tracks, his eyes narrowing. “What are getting at, World Guardian?”

After lighting the nearest torch, Jahaan blew out the one he was holding and set it against the wall. A part of him knew he shouldn’t have said anything, but the question had been eating away at him for days, and something about Lamistard’s sorry story set him on edge. Turning to Sliske, he folded his arms over his chest, a stern and serious expression on his face. “Why do you want my soul, Sliske? Tell me the truth. Am I as disposable to you as Lamistard was to the Mahjarrat?”

Tilting his chin up, Sliske’s expression warped slightly. “So, that’s what this is about.”

“Just spit it out, Sliske,” Jahaan demanded. “I have to know - why me? Why my soul? And if you’d always planned to steal it, why toy with me all this time, acting like you care?”

“That is not your concern.”

“It’s my soul, it IS my fucking concern!” Jahaan snapped back. “You want an afterlife, don’t you? So you steal my soul and claim eternity for yourself, but I guess you don’t care where that leaves me, do you?”

“We made a deal,” Sliske countered through gritted teeth. “I help you kill Zemouregal, you give me your soul. A simple exchange.”

Sniffing a humourless laugh, Jahaan rolled his eyes and remarked, “This would make a good plot for one of your plays, Sliske.”

The pause that followed was thick and deadly, a chill in the air.

“Who told you about my plays?” Sliske demanded, low and fierce.

Straightening up his shoulders, Jahaan looked on in bafflement. He wasn’t expecting the comment to get such a strong reaction, and it knocked him for six. “Zamorak. So?”

“You weren’t supposed to know about those!” Sliske snapped, his voice like the crack of a whip.

Jahaan’s confusion warped into anger rapidly. “What, you embarrassed your  _ perfect reputation _ is tarnished?” he derided. “Gods, Azzanadra was right about your mood swings...”

In hindsight, this was the worst thing Jahaan could have said.

Yellow irises danced with flickers of flame, the corners of Sliske’s mouth twitching with a cruel sneer. His voice was deathly quiet, almost a whisper, as he said, “...You’ve been talking to Azzanadra about me?”

Gulping, Jahaan regretted ever opening his mouth, but he forced his fear aside - rage was so much easier to handle. “Yeah, so? I thought you of all people would enjoy being the topic of conversation.”

“And what did he tell you?” his sneer cracked his features, morphed into something otherworldly and venomous.

Jahaan saw no reason to lie at this point. Sliske would know. “He told me that your mood has always changed like the weather, and that if you came to threaten me again he would deal with you personally.”

This caused Sliske to erupt in a roar of laughter that was full of bile and animosity. “Oh, that’s  _ adorable _ ,” he spat, words dripping like acid from his fanged teeth.

Stalking closer to Jahaan, Sliske watched with sadistic glee as the young man forced himself not to flinch. “Well, where’s your precious Azzanadra now, hm?” he towered over Jahaan like a looming shadow, imposing and dangerous.

The claw shot out like a bow from an arrow, latching itself tightly around Jahaan’s throat, lifting him off the ground with ease. Instantly Jahaan’s hands pushed against the offending arm, trying to pry away Sliske’s firm grip, but it was locked onto him.

“Slis- _ ah! _ ” he gasped, breath hitching as he felt Sliske’s nails pierce his fragile skin, drawing blood that trickled crimson down his throat.

A brief glimpse through tear-filled eyes saw Sliske’s stoic expression, blank and deadly, the only life being the fire dancing behind his eyes. “Is this how you’d prefer me, World Guardian?” Sliske growled, flashing his teeth. “Is this easier to comprehend?”

It was a much tighter hold than the last time Jahaan found himself in this predicament; Sliske meant business, and he could pop his head like a grape if he wanted to. If Jahaan had the ability to form coherent thoughts that weren’t frantic and scattered, he would have realised this was the very first time he truly witnessed the gravitas of Sliske’s power. Gasping for air that would not come, Jahaan felt himself growing increasingly dizzy and lightheaded, the only thing keeping him stable being the immense pain of Sliske’s nails digging into his neck.

Though he felt his limbs becoming weaker and weaker, he desperately fought to reach for his dagger, but he was too slow, the movement too telegraphed. However, instead of retaliation, Jahaan felt himself released. He ragdolled to the ground, collapsing in a panting and spluttering heap. Hungrily he gasped in the warm air, scrambling over to put his back against the nearest wall.

Jahaan tried to gather his bearings, and once he managed to wipe away the tears from his eyes he realised he was no longer in the Shadow Realm - the air was too warm, the colours too vivid.

It took a long while for Jahaan to calm his breathing and ease his rapid heart rate, but once he did, he tried to look into the Shadow Realm, or at least open his mind up enough into the realm in order to sense if Sliske was still present. Thankfully, he wasn’t.

Rubbing the bruising on his neck, Jahaan could feel the swelling of welts that would turn an ugly shade of purple before long. Coupled with that, Jahaan’s fingers dripped crimson when he withdrew them, spots of dark red staining his skin. There wasn’t much blood, thankfully, and Jahaan didn’t think they’d scar. Still, one look at him and Wahisietel or Azzanadra would be able to deduce what had happened.

_ Sliske’s not ruining this for me, _ Jahaan vowed to himself, not wanting to back out despite them being a man short. But it was the lingering thought that the other Mahjarrat might withdraw that caused Jahaan not to inform them of the change in circumstance. They’d find out soon enough anyhow.

He wasn’t going to let Sliske get to him. Not now, when so much was at stake. This would be his only chance at Zemouregal for a long while. Still, the painful bruises at his neck served as a constant reminder of the enemy he’d just made.

Picking himself up off the ground, Jahaan stretched out the kinks in his neck and concentrated on shifting back into the Shadow Realm. Sliske or no Sliske, it was strategically the best way to sneak through Zemouregal’s fort.

Winding his way through the tunnels, Jahaan found himself getting turned around on more than one occasion - Lamistard had hardly created a labyrinth, but it also appeared as if not much planning had gone into the tunnelling beforehand. That’s probably why he ended up under the fort instead of where he’d intended, under the Ritual Marker.

Eventually though, Jahaan started to see the beginnings of civilisation in the form of stone paving, storage crates and more torches in close proximity to one another. Perhaps Zemouregal had attempted to make the most out of Lamistard’s labour and renovate some of the tunnels into a basement, but from the looks of it, the enormity of the task was too much and he’d long since given up. Still, it didn’t take too long to find a hatch that, when the corresponding chain was pulled, revealed a ladder which would take Jahaan up to the surface.

He’d made it inside Zemouregal’s fort undetected.

_ Now for the tricky part... _


	35. Dance of the Undead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QUEST 08: MARK OF ZEMOUREGAL  
> Chapter 4 - Dance of the Undead
> 
> Because of Jahaan’s betrayal of Zamorak during their heist of the Stone of Jas, Zemouregal takes the matter of revenge into his own hands. When Jahaan looks to get even, he enlists the help of his Mahjarrat allies to take the fight to Zemouregal…

Unfortunately, passing through solid objects such as doors and walls wasn’t possible in the Shadow Realm - you would still collide with anything in the ‘material world’ - therefore, opening creaking doors with stealth and finesse was still a real artform. Anyone could hear them, or see the door moving of its own accord, like some bored phantom out for a wander.

Jahaan edged the first door open with a hunched back and a wince that covered his entire face, flinching with every audible groan that the old door made. Alas, though not surprisingly, he didn’t find the teleport beacon beyond the first door. In fact, it took six doors until he finally hit the jackpot.

The study the teleport beacon was in was small and cluttered, books piled in an unorderly fashion next to drab bookshelves after Zemouregal invariably got bored of putting them back where they belonged. From the amount of dust each one had accumulated, Jahaan gathered he wasn’t much of an avid reader. This came as little surprise.

The teleport beacon itself didn’t exactly look like a magical marvel - it was a clunky steel construction, standing tall at about a foot off the desk. Inside it, however, would be an enchanted crystal, and that’s what Jahaan needed to get to. It took everything in his power to resist smashing it against the table. Instead, he used his fingernails to delicately pry the back of the casing off. Reaching inside, he gently nudged the gem loose and knocked it into his palm. The lights on the beacon instantly went dark, but fortunately, no alarms sounded. Jahaan prepared for a roar, backlash, the clatter of undead footsteps… but no. Perhaps Zemouregal hadn’t gotten around to wiring up his security systems properly either? Rather careless of him, or arrogant, depending on your outlook.

After placing the tiny shining blue crystal into his rucksack, Jahaan pulled out the CommOrb, suddenly struck with a bolt of poignant familiarity; he’d seen Sir Tiffy use one to summon Thaerisk to the Ritual Site after the last Mahjarrat Ritual. It was a weird thing to haunt him, and it cut deeper than imagined. With all his anger, planning, running here, there and everywhere, Jahaan had not allowed himself the chance to  _ grieve _ .

_ There’ll be time enough when Zemouregal’s dead, _ he vowed, shaking off the solemn cobwebs from around his mind and activating the CommOrb, tuning it to Azzanadra’s frequency.

 

Upon a ridge, as far away from the fortress as he could be without being out of spell range, Azzanadra tucked the CommOrb back in its pouch and began to concentrate, hard. A spell of that magnitude wasn’t a walk in the park, hence beacons were implemented to save mages working in shifts to protect homes and castles, such as they did back in the earliest days of magic. The spell’s complexity was no trouble, nor was the duration he’d have to hold it for, not for a powerful battlemage like Azzanadra. No, the hardest thing for him would be sitting on the sidelines while Sliske, Wahisietel and the World Guardian faced up against Zemouregal without him. A large part of him wanted to be there as that Zamorakian filth drew his final breath, after all.

His lips curved into a cruel smile as he muttered to himself. “Not long now, Zemouregal, before you join your wretched cousin in the void… it has been a long time coming...”

 

After ending the communication with Azzanadra, Jahaan then tuned into Wahisietel’s CommOrb, and within moments the Mahjarrat was standing in front of him.

However, Jahaan couldn’t even get a word out before Wahisietel, looking around him uneasily, queried, “Where is Sliske?”

“We had a...  _ disagreement _ ,” Jahaan groaned, clicking his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He wanted to brush past it, to focus on the task at hand and keep Sliske as far away from his mind as possible. In a time like this, he was a dangerous distraction. “It doesn’t matter right now - Zemouregal would have sensed you’re here, so we have to act fast.”

Unfortunately, Wahisietel wasn’t so easily brushed aside. Narrowing his stern eyes upon Jahaan, he demanded, “Your neck. Did Sliske do that to you?!”

Subconsciously rubbing the bruises around his throat, Jahaan averted his gaze. “Okay, so it was a little more than a disagreement. Here, I know we’re one man down, so if you want to back out, I understand, but I’m not going anywhere. Just make sure Azzanadra doesn’t relent that teleblock for a while.”

Shaking his head, Wahisietel grumbled something in a cursed tongue, a hiss-infused-growl that scraped against Jahaan’s ears. Whatever he said, Jahaan could surmise it wasn’t pleasant, and no doubt in regards to the absentee. Then, back in the familiar tongue, he asserted, “I gave you my word I would see this through, World Guardian. But as soon as this is over, you are to tell me  _ everything _ . Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” a ghost of a smile danced across Jahaan’s lips, his eyes determined as he said, “Let’s do this.”

 

Zemouregal was definitely in residence - Wahisietel could sense that much. Now came the task of finding just where in this gothic fortress he was hiding. Thankfully, it didn’t take long, for as soon as the pair rounded the next corner, they found exactly what they were looking for - a large chamber door, crimson-coloured ornaments warping their way across the metal in twisted and vulgar patterns. It looked like it led to a grand hall, somewhere defensible that Zemouregal would greet unwanted guests, somewhere he could look down on them with his haughty chin raised, somewhere large enough to summon armies of the undead.

Nodding to one another, Wahisietel and Jahaan heaved the creaking doors open.

When the pair made their way inside, it was clear Zemouregal had been expecting someone, positioned at the far end of the room in a subtly defensive stance.

Zemouregal must have sensed Wahisietel’s arrival, but from the look on his face when Jahaan emerged from behind the taller Mahjarrat, he was not expecting him.

Eyes flashing in shock, Zemouregal sneered, “So, back from the undead, World Guardian?”

“You should have finished me while you had the chance,” Jahaan growled, clenching tightly onto the hilts of his longswords.

After a sharp laugh, Zemouregal broke out into a cracked and haunting grin. “Perhaps, but the temptation to see you burn was too much,” his eyes scanned once again to Wahisietel, beside Jahaan, though he towered over the young man by a good height. “So, you brought this Zarosian scum along to act as a bodyguard - a wise move for a puny human, but I’m not going to entertain you maggots tonight.”

Raising his hand, he attempted a teleportation spell, and his face crumbled into panic when he realised it didn’t work.

With a satisfied smirk, Jahaan presented the teleblock crystal from out of a pocket on his rucksack. “This wasn’t important, was it?”

Spitting a harsh curse, Zemouregal roared, “SHARATHTEERK! TO ME!”

The gargoyle manifested beside his master. “I come at your call, my lord.”

“Summon reinforcements and dispatch of that Zarosian pest, but leave the human for me,” he ordered, and moments later a platoon of the undead appeared behind Sharatheerk, swaying dizzily from side to side like drunken sailors.

 

Because he was a  _ darling _ , Zemouragal wasn’t kind enough to allow Jahaan a path through his horde in order to face him mono e mono. Instead, Jahaan got the perfect opportunity to try out his new gear for real, and by the gods did he enjoy it. Charging right into the swarm with his swords held aloft, Jahaan unleashed fury.

Zombies don’t bleed, not requiring the circulatory system one requires blood for. Therefore, no crimson tail was left in the wake of Jahaan’s attacks. Having had the unfortunate pleasure of fighting many a man and beast in his time, Jahaan had become used to the sounds of death. From a man or a humanoid creature, it’s this sickening slurp, sort of like a squelch, that’s usually masked by a groan or shriek of agony. The same usually went for beasts, although they had the tendency to roar through their pain. Zombies, on the other hand, made no protest upon re-death - they just crumbled to the ground and accepted it. That meant that there was nothing to hide just how nauseating blade through flesh and bone sounded, and if it wasn’t for the chorus of moans coming from the sheer number of zombies, Jahaan might have let it affect him.

These types of zombies left a gooey greenish-black slime when cut into, and to be killed they must be decapitated. There were the older zombies, ones that have been dead for many years and decomposed into a near-skeletal form. These ones were absent of much fluid, tumbling to the ground with a low knock of bones and leaving a thin layer of dust upon the blade.

The main worry when fighting a zombie was their resiliency; you can cut all the limbs off one of these fuckers and he’ll still shuffle towards you by shifting his broken ribcage if he must. Their attacks were wild and reckless, but in a group they can overwhelm quickly. If one latched onto you, you’d be in for a struggle to shake off the bastard before his friends joined in the fun. Then, of course, there was the standard zombie bite. Fortunately, the cure for a bite was stocked in almost every pharmacy in Gielinor, and handed out to anyone that requires it free of charge. Jahaan’s armour covered him from neck to toe, so the only real risk came if he was swarmed and they pulled off a glove or boot, but as long as he got the antidote within seventy-two hours, he’d be fine.

Marvels of modern medicine.

And from how his swords cut through these undead cretins, they were marvels of modern smithing.

Jahaan swiped and swung from side to side, top to bottom, sometimes going straight for a decapitating blow, other times slicing inside the gut with one sword and stabbing through the brain with the other. As he fought on and on, he felt his dormant rage come back to him, but this time, he could control it, channel it into his precise attacks, carving a neat little path through the horde on his way to Zemouregal. Patient, making sure the Mahjarrat knew exactly what was coming for him.

In the shuffle, Wahisietel had become lost to the other side of the room, but the constant background noise of spells being channeled reassured Jahaan that he was still in the fight.

Jahaan didn’t even try and keep track of just how many zombies he’d cut down in the melee, but they seemed to keep coming, occasionally knocking into Jahaan’s armour before he had the chance to push them back and finish them off. Letting too many of them enclose on his personal space would be a real danger to him, so Jahaan fought carefully, not irrationally.

He had one chance to end this, and he wasn’t going to let some poor undead sap get the better of him.

 

In Wahisietel’s battle, he’d been using magic over melee, naturally. However, magic wasn’t always the best strategy against the undead because, as previously mentioned, only a strong and precise strike to the head will kill them. Magic came in blasts, in waves, in spells that could throw a horse back a good few paces, maybe slow them down even further for a while, but they’d keep on coming back. Therefore, Wahisietel had developed the strategy of knocking them backwards with a large blast of ice magic, then using smaller and more deliberate ice spells aimed at the head to pick them off one by one. For once, the Mahjarrat was at a disadvantage over the tiny human with the blades.

However, Sharathteerk was a different story altogether. The gargoyle, who had been waiting in the wings while the zombies were attacking Wahisietel, finally got bored of sitting around and decided to bring the fight to the Mahjarrat.

Big. Mistake.

All of these precise strikes were frustrating the heck out of Wahisietel, so when a large target came along without a specific body part for a weakness, Wahisietel let loose.

It wasn’t long before the gargoyle, so overwhelmed against the flurry of ice and smoke attacks from the Mahjarrat, succumbed to the intense barrage and shattered into fragments that exploded across the room. Jahaan had forgotten about Sharathteerk’s existence entirely until the remnants of his left thigh shot overhead and buried itself into a zombie’s skull. Looking past the swarm, Jahaan fought to see Zemouregal’s reaction, and he wasn’t disappointed; seeing Sharathteerk’s demise, Zemouregal’s face looked increasingly worried now. He summoned another platoon of zombies to fight in the gargoyle’s place, growing even more desperate.

_ Desperate people make mistakes, _ Jahaan noted, his own confidence growing.

 

Finally, after swinging his swords so much he wouldn’t have been surprised if one of his shoulders detached and whirled away like a Catherine Wheel, the swarm began to thin out, only leaving a handful of the undead between Jahaan and Zemouregal.

In one last flurry of blades connecting with undead flesh, the last of the zombies fell.

The adrenaline was suffocating, causing Jahaan’s erratic heartbeat to thrum loudly in his ears. Glaring into Zemouregal’s eyes, there was so much he wanted to say; violent curses, vows of revenge… but words didn’t matter now.

Jahaan charged head on towards Zemouregal. The Mahjarrat quickly summoned up a spell and thrust it towards Jahaan, but Jahaan dodged it, rolling out of the way and continuing onwards. The second blast, however, Jahaan didn’t see until it was too late to evade.

Wincing, Jahaan tensed up and braced himself for the blast of shadow magic to connect. When it did, he was knocked backwards a step, but he wasn’t even winded. Looking up at Zemouregal, the Mahjarrat was just as surprised as Jahaan that he was still standing.

Jahaan’s lip upturned into a defiant smirk, the grip on his swords tightening as he charged again.

Absorbing the next blast was akin to fighting against a torrent of wind, but it was manageable. Each time the magic connected, Jahaan’s armour would tingle even more, like the energy was being absorbed into the metal itself. Once he was close enough, Jahaan swung for Zemouregal’s head. The swipe missed wildly, Zemouregal evading with ease, drawing his own sword to parry the rebound.

_ Now,  _ Jahaan thought,  _ the fight can REALLY begin. _

 

Jahaan knew that as soon as he could goad Zemouregal into drawing his sword the fight would be a whole lot fairer. The two blades clashed, the sharp metallic ring resonating throughout the chamber. Jahaan had no idea what Zemouregal’s blade was made of; the metal was black, but it was far stronger than anything the black knights carried. Around the edges, smoke seeped from the blade, thin shadows coating the razor sharp metal. For a human the weapon would be held in two hands, if it could be lifted at all. Zemouregal, on the other hand, lifted it in one hand with the ease of someone lifting a quill pen.

Wasting little time, Zemouregal swung for a decapitating strike, but Jahaan rolled out of the way, the armour not hindering his movement or agility one bit. Like a second skin, it moulded to his body, moved with him, allowing him to gain distance from the blade before quickly dashing back in with a countering strike.

“Some fancy armour you have there,  _ World Guardian _ ,” Zemouregal snorted the title like it was an insult. “Much nicer than anything those Temple Knights wear.”

Zemouregal’s comment was as sharp as his sword, pointed and attacking. The rush of blood that rose through Jahaan’s throat made him falter, allowed Zemouregal the opening to slice his blade downwards. Jahaan dodged, but it was too close for comfort - he felt the metal whizz past his face, the cold rush of the breeze scratching his skin. If it had hit the mark, his head would have been sliced clean in half, like an apple being segmented.

Zemouregal’s strategy was an obvious one; Jahaan cursed himself for being swayed so easily. Keeping his breathing steady, he let the words wash over him, focusing everything he had on channeling out Zemouregal’s voice and putting everything into precise strikes.

“Did your dark-skinned friend make it out too?” Zemouregal jeered, all-too pleased with himself. “Such a shame I had to drug him. It would have been so much sweeter to hear him scream…”

_ Breathe in... breathe out… swing… parry… evade… lunge… breathe in… breathe out… _

“Would you like me to tell you that druid’s final words? Honestly, I’ve been laughing about them ever since… you know, he actually started crying! Such a pathetic human... ”

_ Breathe in… breath out… dodge... swing… parry… strike… breathe in… breathe out… _

“Your knight wasn’t any better - he was shaking like a leaf! Stuttering and mumbling about Saradomin, as if that blue ponce could help him!”

_ Breathe in… breath out… evade… swing… block… lunge… breathe in… breathe out... _

The constant back and forth was getting Zemouregal nowhere, and the lack of impact his words were having on the World Guardian really started to grate on him. Indignant, he pushed on harder, fought with an increased desperation and anger, but Jahaan could block everything he could swing at him.

Deducing his blade wasn’t making any progress, Zemouregal started to warm up his palms with shadow energy. His mystic attacks from earlier did no good, but if he could build up the power, attack dead on at such a close distance... 

Jahaan could see the spell being channeled, but figured he could swallow it and use Zemouregal’s recharging time to try and get a lucky shot in.

However, he didn’t realise Zemouregal was giving it everything he had.

 

Upon impact, Jahaan tumbled to the floor, swords clattering to the ground around him, the metallic ring echoing loud enough to catch the attention of Wahisietel.

“Jahaan!” he called out, moving to assist before he was tackled by a row of zombies who made the most of his distraction.

Groaning, Jahaan saw Zemouregal stalk over to him out of the corner of his eye, that smug smirk of his slashed across his face.

“You should have stayed dead, World Guardian,” he gloated, summoning a spell to his palms. “This time I’ll make sure it’s permanent.”

Before Zemouregal knew what hit him, his vision was clouded by a blinding smoke spell, causing him to cough and splutter as he gained distance from Jahaan.

Jahaan faltered slightly, so impressed that his smoke spell actually worked effectively that he forgot to capitalise. Luckily, Wahisietel had freed himself from the zombies and shot an ice blast from out of nowhere, careering straight into Zemouregal with a vicious impact. The Mahjarrat was knocked to the ground, and that’s when Jahaan charged, scooping up one of his swords and bolting forwards.

He didn’t waste time to gloat, or be smug, or allow Zemouregal even a second to register what was happening to him.

The blade plunged easily into the Mahjarrat’s neck, sliding its way in like Jahaan was making the first carve into a tender chicken roast, but even more satisfying than the thought of a banquette ever could be. Gagging, hoarse rasps of breath were fought for, but Zemouregal never achieved them. Jahaan revelled in the wide-eyed terror glistening in his eyes, like the sockets were going to open up and let the eyeballs escape free. With teeth clenched, Jahaan took a deep, steadying breath, and slowly began to twist the blade inside his flesh, opening up a wound that started to seep ink-like fluid onto the ground below. He relished every second, watching the life fade from Zemouregal’s eyes, the breath from his lungs, the blood from his veins.

Zemouregal was dead before the tip of the blade was removed from his neck.

 

As soon as Zemouregal was gone, the magic keeping the zombies animated suddenly ceased to be, and they all collapsed in piles of bones of the floor. Wahisietel watched them shatter, dust rising in clouds from their old corpses.

The adrenaline that had held Jahaan up those last few moments vanished as quickly as the zombies, and he collapsed to the ground, clutching balled up fists to his chest. He tried to prop himself up, instead sliding back to the floor, a hoarse groan forcing its way out as his clenched teeth tried to verbalise the pain.

“Jahaan!” Wahisietel called out, seeing the man fall to the ground. He rushed over, kneeling by his side.

“I’m okay,” Jahaan winced. The injury wasn’t anything too serious, just agonising. The severe pain in his chest confirmed his suspicions - he’d cracked a rib, if not multiple. Jahaan had cracked and even broken ribs before, several times too many in fact. Despite being familiar with the feeling, one never gets used to it. Breathing suddenly became torturous, but he forced deep breaths from himself, knowing this was necessary to protect his lungs. His armour would have to go, as would his weaponry, since their heaviness would worsen the injury. Right now though, he needed to get somewhere to recuperate that wasn’t filled with zombie dust and dead Mahjarrat. He didn’t even get a chance to relish in the victory thanks to the blinding pain in his chest.

“Contact Azzanadra,” Jahaan tried to make his way to his feet, but seeing as he was struggling, Wahisietel practically lifted him up. “Let’s leave this place. Fuck, I need some pain relievers…”

**Author's Note:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


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